


Tricky Business

by Brynn_Jones, eureka1



Series: Tricky Business [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anti-Michael, Bottom Brian, Getting Back Together, Humour, Jealous Brian, M/M, Responsible Justin, Romance, Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, Smut, Wordcount: Over 100.000, friendship/family, toppy Justin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 439,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9149794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynn_Jones/pseuds/Brynn_Jones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/eureka1/pseuds/eureka1
Summary: What if Justin didn’t run off to New York after Brian’s loft got burgled in the first season? What happens when Justin decides to face the situation like an adult? Join us on the journey to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a shared effort of mine and eureka1’s, my wonderful Synergy Sister. I promise that we’ll do our best to push out a chapter once a week.

                                                  

 

A drop of sweat slid along the side of Justin’s face before dropping off his chin and splashing against Brian’s toned stomach. Leaning forward, the blond grunted as his hands slipped where they were braced against his lover’s sweaty chest, causing his rolling hips to falter. He managed to keep his balance by gripping onto Brian’s shoulders instead and made up for his slight stumble by slamming himself down onto the brunet with increased fervour.

“That’s it,” Brian breathed out, gripping Justin’s hips in a tight hold and helping him move faster. “Just like that.”

Grunting deep in his throat, Justin picked up his pace, adjusting to the change in speed with practiced ease. “Yeah?” he rasped out, his voice tight with exertion, “like that?”

Brian arched his back off the bed and moaned. “Fuck, I’m close.”

Justin huffed out an amused breath, slowing down the movement of his hips again in hopes of delaying Brian’s orgasm further. It wouldn’t do to have him come so quickly, Justin had other plans than letting the man spill into a condom and waste all that nutritious protein.

“Uhh, Justin,” the brunet moaned in protest at the unwelcome change in pace, snapping his pelvis up to try and get the friction he needed to reach satisfaction, which caused Justin to stop moving altogether. Brian would deny it till his dying day, but he actually whined at the loss of stimulation, his fingers uselessly clenching on the boy’s firm hips.

“Be a good boy and let me make you feel good, Brian,” teased the brat, soothingly running his hands across the mouth-watering expanse of muscles in front of him.

It was a testament to how far gone the older man was that he didn’t protest Justin’s words at all, taking deep breaths instead to stave off his imminent orgasm. The blond just watched him, at a loss for words. Brian was beautiful. His back was arched, his head thrown back, and his hazel eyes were unfocused with pleasure. Running his hand through the stud’s sweaty hair, Justin smiled and waited for his lover to calm down.

“You good?” he whispered when he noticed the tension finally leaving Brian’s muscles.

The brunet cleared his throat, focusing his eyes on Justin’s face. “Yeah, and I’ll be even better when you start moving again,” he said, though the man’s normal snark was missing as arousal coloured his voice.

Justin grinned. “Just remember not to come,” he reminded his stud, earning himself a weak glare for his troubles. He raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t like he was being intentionally cheeky, since it had been Brian’s idea to make Justin come first and then have the blond blow him.

Beginning to move again, Justin leaned forward to brace himself against the headboard. He started off slowly, just rolling his hips and trying to hit that sensitive spot inside himself with Brian’s cock. Enjoying his lover’s excited gasp, he ground down a bit harder and managed to hit his prostate dead on.

“Ugh” he grunted, repeating the motion.

Brian’s hands moved from where they were gripping his hips to caress his chest and pinch his nipples lightly. “That’s it, Sunshine, fuck yourself on my cock,” he urged him.

Justin quickened his pace, matching the furious beating of his heart. Brian talking dirty always did it for him and the bastard knew it.

“Come on, ride me faster,” the brunet grated, his voice taut with strain, and Justin realised why Brian was trying to hurry him along. The stud of Liberty Avenue, the famous sex fiend, and god’s gift to gay men everywhere was once again on the brink of orgasm - courtesy of a little blond twink.

“Don’t come,” Justin huffed out through gritted teeth, his movements becoming a little jerky and out of sync. His knuckles turned white with how tightly he was gripping the headboard, warm sweat dripping off his brow and his loins tingling with coiled heat. He could feel Brian swelling inside him and knew that the other man was as close to coming completely apart as he was. “Don’t come,” he repeated.

Brian let one of his hands fall off the blond’s chest and wrapped it around the base of his own cock. It was a bit embarrassing, having to resort to such measures, but he’d much rather wear a flaming cock ring than come before he was allowed to.

As it turned out, he had acted just in time because, on his next backwards thrust, Justin’s walls clasped around him as the blond’s whole body wound up tight in orgasm, his strong thighs gripping Brian’s sides almost painfully.

“Brian!” cried out the little hellion, his voice hoarse.

The brunet always found it very hot, having his name called in that husky tone. It sent jolts of burning pleasure right to the very centre of him, bringing him that much closer to the edge. Maybe he should swallow his pride one of these days and actually invest in that blasted cock ring.

As he finished shooting streaks of white across the stud’s chest, Justin watched through half-lidded eyes as Brian bit his bottom lip, drawing blood. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that he admired the man’s resolve not to come.

“Get off now, Sunshine, or I swear to god I’ll shoot,” grunted the brunet, his teeth stained pink.

Justin bit back the obvious response of having already got off and carefully heaved himself up off Brian’s hardness, as not to cause too much aggravation to his lover’s heavily swollen member. Brian let out a moan that was a mix of relief and frustration, making Justin chuckle softly.

“Don’t worry, stud,” murmured the blond as he slowly slithered down the brunet’s body, bestowing kisses on the tanned skin along his way. When he finally reached Brian’s engorged dick, he stopped and let his breath just wash over the purplish head.

Brian was breathless. “I thought you promised to suck something,” he gasped out, undulating his hips in an attempt to thrust his cock into Justin’s wet mouth.

The blond had other ideas though. He lightly pecked the top of Brian’s hardness, before sitting back on his haunches and sticking two of his own fingers into his mouth. He sucked on them teasingly, making wet slurping noises. “Like this, you mean?” he mumbled around the digits.

Brian huffed a frustrated laugh. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing with those fingers, but-”

“You know exactly what I’m gonna do,” Justin interrupted him in a sultry voice, pulling his fingers free of his mouth. Leaning forward again, he then wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the base of Brian’s cock. “And you’re gonna love it,” he added before finally putting his gobby mouth to use. He licked around the mushroom head first, short little teasing licks, while the wet fingers of his right hand softly caressed Brian’s perineum. He watched the brunet close his eyes and relax his muscles in acquiescence of Justin’s control and rewarded him by sliding his open mouth over Brian’s dick, bobbing his head a few times.

Brian felt the wet heat finally envelop him and let out a sigh of relief. One of Justin’s hands was still gripping the base of his cock, while the other slid further down and was now busy teasing his entrance. He grunted in pleasure.

He remembered how startled he had been the first time Justin did this. The blond had been giving him a back massage, leaving a trail of wet kisses all the way down his spine, when the stud had felt a curious finger teasingly slide in between his cheeks. He had let Justin go on, not wanting to discourage the boy, but he hadn’t exactly expected to enjoy the experience. Don’t get him wrong, he was a fag and, like any other fag, he loved a bit of anal stimulation, but he wasn’t used to getting it courtesy of his tricks. He had a whole box of toys to take care of that need. He had turned out to be completely wrong though - the twat had known exactly what he was doing with those nimble fingers of his - and Brian had found himself coming only a few minutes later, a talented finger tapping his prostate.

Now the eager twink was again sliding a finger inside of him in slow thrusts, while slobbering all over his cock, and Brian couldn’t have been any happier. Fuck the stupid box of toys, he thought, when you had your own little boy toy to satisfy you. A boy toy who was now licking the vein on the underside of his shaft, blue eyes watching him.

Brian let out a grunt to let the blond know he appreciated his ministrations, earning himself a sunshiny smile as the boy looked up at him. Then, without any sort of warning, the cheeky brat took in a deep breath and almost swallowed him down whole, dragging a nail over the sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him at the same time. Brian choked on his spit, only barely managing not to come.

“Fuck!” he cried out, back arching almost painfully off the bed.

The little shit hummed in response, sending delicious vibrations into his core.

“Fuck,” he repeated, his breath hitching as heat pooled in his groin. He was wound up so tightly that even the slightest nudge was now going to cause him to snap. Justin nudged his prostate.

Brian’s vision whited out completely as he yelled out his release. He felt his body constrict around Justin’s finger and his cock pulse as he shot his load down the boy’s throat. All conscious thought abandoned him, and his senses became shrouded in a thick fog of postorgasmic bliss. He wasn’t aware of anything other than a low humming sound, which could have been anything from the noise of traffic outside their window to the sound of angels weeping for joy at their coupling.

He came back to himself to find Justin stroking his hair and murmuring nonsensical words into his ear. “That one was definitely in the top five,” Brian told him, tongue in cheek.

Justin chuckled warmly. “Please, your brains are so scrambled after that orgasm that you can hardly remember any of our fucks.”

“You cheeky little shit.” Brian pounced on him, causing the boy to giggle happily as he wiggled and writhed underneath the brunet’s assault.

 

Later that morning, after Brian left for work - having completely disregarded Justin’s mithering about working on a Saturday - Justin sat down to put some finishing touches on his drawing of Molly, which he planned to give to his sister as a birthday gift.

He smiled down at the pencil drawing as he added the last detail. There, that impish curl to her lips made it look just like his bratty younger sister. She might not appreciate the drawing just yet, he mused, but he thought she might look at it differently in the future. It would be a memento from ‘Jester’ to his ‘Mollusk’, a reminder of how much her big brother did care for her. The blond grinned confidently - it was also a Justin Taylor original and would be really valuable one day when he’d made his mark as an artist.

Justin rolled up the drawing and tied a red ribbon around it to make it seem more festive, before grabbing his jacket and his messenger bag. Juggling all those things, he punched in the code to set the alarm and locked the door behind him. The drawing fell out of his hands to the ground, so he quickly scooped it up and safely stowed it in his bag. Really, he huffed to himself, he should have had the sense to do that in the first place. Fortunately, as he didn’t have time to recreate it and still make it to Molly’s birthday party on time, the drawing hadn’t been damaged by his spurt of clumsiness.

As he walked into the backyard of his parents’ house, Justin grinned at the vision Molly presented. His tomboy sister was actually wearing a lemony-yellow concoction of a dress with white polka dots, puffed sleeves, and a scooped neckline. With her hair cascading down from a scrunchie made of the same fabric as the dress, she presented a very ladylike appearance. Justin couldn’t help wondering how long that would last. Surely, their mother would have had the foresight to set aside some play clothes for Molly to change into once the cake and other goodies had been consumed. Even waiting till then was taking a big chance where his slob of a sister was involved.

The ten-year-old blonde managed to blow all the candles out in one go, and Justin could hear his mom promise, “Now you’re sure to get your wish, Molly!”

Right then, Molly noticed her older brother and jumped up, squealing, “Jester! You’re here! Mom said she didn’t think you’d make it.”

Justin felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Why would his mom think he wouldn’t be there for his sister’s birthday? She knew they loved each other, despite always playing pranks and teasing one another unmercifully. He decided to make up an excuse to cover for his mother, though, not wanting Molly to notice that anything was wrong. “Nah, I couldn’t miss your big day, Mollusk, so I skipped out on the study group for my calculus class and came here instead.”

“Yay!” Molly screeched in excitement, almost bursting her brother’s eardrums. She tugged on Justin’s hand, “Come watch while I open my gifts.”

Justin chuckled at his sister’s eagerness as he pulled out the drawing and presented it to his sister. “Why don’t you start with this present?”

Molly’s blue eyes - so similar in color to Justin’s - lit up in gleeful anticipation. “What is it, Jester?” she asked as she pushed the ribbon off the rolled-up tube of paper. “Oh! It’s me! Mom, look, Jester made a drawing of me!”

Jennifer, who’d been standing near the table with gifts and the cake, keeping an eye on Molly’s young friends, finally moved toward her son and daughter. Looking over the top of Molly’s head at the drawing, she smiled at her son, “That’s very well done, Justin. It really does look just like Molly.”

“Can we frame it and hang it up in my room?” Molly begged. “Justin told me he’s gonna be famous one day, and I want to be able to brag to my friends about how he drew me.”

Justin thought his mother didn’t seem all that pleased at the prospect of his upcoming fame, which confused him - she’d been the one to foster all his artistic inclinations, paying for a great number of drawing, dancing, and singing lessons. At least she didn’t discourage Molly in regard to the birthday gift, “Okay, honey, we’ll shop for a frame the next time we go to the mall. Now, why don’t you go eat your cake and open some more gifts while I talk with your brother?”

Molly gave Justin an enthusiastic hug, “Thanks again, Jester. I love the drawing!” After starting back toward the table, she suddenly turned around, bit her lower lip, and anxiously asked, “You won’t leave without telling me, will you, Justin?”

“Of course not, Mollusk. Go open that mountain of presents,” Justin teased, “and I’ll be over in a sec to check out all the loot you’ve raked in - all because you’ve managed to turn ten years old.”

Satisfied that Justin wasn’t going to leave immediately, Molly raced back to the table, where she stuffed herself with cake while tearing open more of her presents. “You can come home, you know,” Jennifer quietly commented.

A longing so intense it nearly overwhelmed him swept through Justin’s body. “I can?” he asked incredulously, “You and dad want me to come home?”

Jennifer nodded. “Yes, Sweetie, this is your home. Both your dad and I want you here.”

Justin’s brows shot up at that assertion. “But what about all of dad’s rules about who I can see; what I can do; how I’m supposed to behave? Has he changed his mind about my ‘disgusting lifestyle’?” Justin made air quotes as he spit out the last two words, getting angry with his dad’s pigheaded narrow-mindedness all over again.

Jennifer shifted uncomfortably, “Honey, your dad . . . well, both of us . . . still don’t really believe you have to be gay. You can choose to be normal.”

Jaw dropping in disbelief, Justin spluttered, “Did you hear what I told that so-called therapist you dragged me to, Mom?” Even though he felt a bit embarrassed to be saying this to his mother, Justin gazed directly into her eyes and firmly stated, “I like dick, Mom. I can’t change that. If I could, I probably would. It’d certainly make my life easier,” he finished bitterly.

Jennifer grabbed her son by the arms, “Justin, Sweetheart, I believe in you.” Her face contorting wistfully, she pled, “I’m sure you could be straight if you’d only try.”

Prying her hands off of his arms, Justin backed away, “No, Mom, that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not.”

A tear trailing down her cheek, Jennifer sighed, “Then you have to understand, Justin, that I have to consider the needs of this whole family, not just your desires. You can’t come home if you won’t try to fit in.”

Justin refused to give in to his own incipient tears as his mother’s words sank in. He really couldn’t believe she was washing her hands of him. Unable to think of a way to get his mother to listen to him and just wanting to get away, Justin turned on his heel to march out of the yard. Just then, however, Molly called out, “Hey, Jester, come look at this awesome baseball dad got me. Can you believe it? It’s signed by Babe Ruth.”

Justin did his best to paste a smile onto his face and hide his bitterness about his dad’s gift to Molly. Craig loved to indulge his daughter’s passion for sports. He had been thrilled when a seven-year-old Molly began playing baseball, soccer, and basketball - particularly since Justin had never expressed much interest in sports.

When he stopped to think about it, Justin realized his fascination with drawing and dancing had always compared unfavourably with Molly’s pursuit of sports in his dad’s estimation. Craig had more than once muttered within his son’s hearing something along the lines of, “That’s for pansies,” or “you’ll never earn a living at that son. You need a good, solid education in business administration.” If that had been Craig’s method for redirecting Justin’s attention away from art, he’d failed miserably.

Justin set aside those unpleasant memories so he could bid farewell to Molly. Walking over to his sister, he examined the baseball and concurred, “This really is a cool gift, Mollusk.”

“I’m gonna put it right next to your drawing, Jester,” Molly raved, “on my dresser, where I can look at them every morning.”

“That sounds like a plan, Sis,” Justin responded, happy that his drawing was just as much of a hit with his sister as the undoubtedly expensive baseball. “I need to get going now, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay, Jus.” The siblings exchanged a warm hug before Justin turned and walked away, head held high, refusing to glance at his mother again.

 

Reeling from the conversation with his mother, and feeling completely rejected by both of his parents, Justin had no idea how he’d made his way back to Brian’s building. He couldn’t even remember getting on and off the bus. He was vaguely aware that he’d wandered around in a daze for awhile as he tried to sort out his feelings, before finally turning toward the loft.

He wearily trudged up the stairs of the old building, and when he reached Brian’s floor, Justin noted in surprise that the door to the loft was ajar. He was sure he had locked the door behind himself, and Brian was at the ad agency as far as he knew, so he couldn’t figure out who might be at the loft. Brian had informed Justin that both Michael and Lindsay had spare keys, but he thought Michael had plans to do something with Emmett, and Lindsay was still at home with Gus, who still hadn’t fully recovered from his bout with laryngitis.

Hesitantly sliding the door fully open, Justin peeked inside, his stomach churning. He knew something was wrong and he was scared to find out what it was. A number of horror movie scenarios flitted through his mind, and the blond found himself hoping he wouldn’t find a Jack Nicholson with an axe in the bathroom.

When he took in the scene before him, though, it was pretty clear that what had actually happened was much worse than a maniac chopping at the door. The whole place had been ransacked and Justin could see a number of Brian’s valuables missing. They had been burgled. And once Brian came home and realised what had happened, Justin would be wishing it was ‘Johnny’ he had to deal with instead. At least then there would be a slight chance of making it out alive.

Justin swallowed the bitter bile that had welled up in his throat. Even worse than a few things being nicked was the feeling of violation, the invasion of privacy that he was experiencing. As he fought off the nausea, he tried to decide how to proceed. He wasn’t sure whether he should actually enter the loft since that might impede a police investigation. Oh right, Justin thought to himself, the police investigation. The first thing he should do was ring the police and report the robbery, so they could investigate. One couldn’t investigate a crime that hadn’t been reported. Unless you were a private investigator, then you could fill your boots and investigate whatever you liked. Justin didn’t need a PI though, he needed the police and…

Jesus, he was a mess. Fumbling for his cell phone with shaky fingers, Justin finally succeeded in pulling it out of the front pocket of his black, cargo-style jeans and flipping up the cover. He then stared at the phone in perplexity, confused as to what number he should dial. Although he half-feared an axe-wielding ‘Johnny’ might still jump out at him, the silent apartment was clearly empty, so he doubted the burglary would constitute an emergency. No matter how hard he tried, however, he could not remember the non-emergency number for the police, and he didn’t really see the sense in dialing Directory Assistance to obtain that number. Determined not to dither any longer, Justin swallowed down another surge of acid, pressed 9-1-1, and held the phone up to his ear.

“9-1-1, Pittsburgh Police. What is your emergency?” a female operator asked in a calm, measured tone.

Justin coughed to clear his throat so he could impart the essentials, “I just got back to my friend’s apartment, where I’ve been staying, and it’s been burgled.”

“Are you in any danger? Did you interrupt the robbery?” the woman inquired.

“No, I’m okay. No one’s here,” Justin quickly assured her, “I think,” he added, his eyes shifting across the loft to reassure himself. When he didn’t see anything suspicious, he leaned against the door jamb to steady himself and, taking a deep breath, he continued, “I was gone for a few hours and when I came home I noticed the door was ajar. I d- … don’t know how long they’ve been gone.”

“Please give me your name and your location; I am dispatching an officer to meet you at the apartment as we speak,” the operator requested.

“It’s Justin, Justin Taylor, and the address is 6 Fuller, corner of Tremont. It’s the only flat on the top floor.” He couldn’t help feeling a bit foolish over the haphazard way he’d provided the details, but he was relieved that a police officer would soon arrive.

“Very well, the police are on their way, Justin. Now, if you are sure that you’re not in any danger, stay exactly where you are and wait in front of the apartment. The officer will be there soon to talk to you.”

“Um, okay. I shouldn’t touch anything, I guess,” Justin murmured.

The woman immediately replied, “If you could refrain from doing that, Justin,” agreed the operator, “it’s always preferable to assess an undisturbed crime scene.”

Justin had to choke back hysterical laughter at the notion that the scene could be considered ‘undisturbed’. He managed to thank the 9-1-1 operator for her assistance, and the call ended shortly after that, with Justin promising to call again if anything suspicious happened before the police arrived at the loft.

Bracing himself, he dialled Brian’s number, making a much more difficult call than the one to the police. His lover’s phone rolled over to voicemail immediately, but Justin didn’t feel any relief since he couldn’t put off contacting the man any longer. The blond teenager scrolled through his contacts again and dialled the main number for Ryder, unsure if someone would pick up on a Saturday. When the phone was answered as quickly as it would have been during the work week, he asked to be connected to Cynthia Moore, Brian’s assistant, to whom he’d spoken once before on the phone.

After the phone rang six times, Justin feared that this call to would also go to voicemail, but then the ringing stopped and a brisk, professional voice stated, “Cynthia Moore. How can I help you?”

“Uh, this is Justin Taylor, Brian’s friend,” Justin nervously babbled, “I don’t know if you remember, but we spoke once before.”

“Of course, I remember, Justin,” Cynthia responded warmly. “Your call was something of a welcome anomaly since - unlike other people calling this office - you don’t sound whiny at all.”

Justin distractedly thought that the assistant must be talking about Michael and filed away the fact that the muppet probably rang Brian incessantly. Gnawing worriedly at his lower lip, Justin asked, “Uh, Cynthia, could you please get Brian for me? I really need to talk to him and I can’t reach him on his cell.”

“He’s in the middle of a pitch for a potential client,” Cynthia explained, “and I was just about to rejoin the meeting.” A wry chuckle reached Justin’s ear, “He wouldn’t be happy with either of us if I interrupted to have him speak with you. What if I have him call you after the client leaves?”

His trepidation about how Brian would react to the burglary rapidly escalating, Justin blurted out, “No! Brian needs to come home now because the loft has been burgled.” Throat constricting with anxiety, he added in a hoarse voice, “It looks like they cleared everything out - furniture, television, computer. I don’t think the thieves left anything behind.”

Cynthia gasped. “Holy hell, Justin, he’s going to freak out!”

“I know,” Justin responded mournfully, “but that’s why I have to talk to him right away.”

“Okay. Okay.” Cynthia sounded almost as frazzled as Justin had been feeling which, for some inexplicable reason, made him feel better. “Okay,” Cynthia reiterated, “I’ll tell him there’s an emergency to get him out of the meeting. It might be better if you don’t talk to him until he gets home. Do you want me to let Brian know he’s been robbed?”

“Yes, please,” Justin gasped as he imagined Brian’s volatile reaction. “Could you tell him the police are on the way, too?”

“I’ll do that,” Cynthia responded, seeming less agitated than she had just moments ago. In a warm, kind voice, she inquired, “Will you be okay, Justin?”

Her concern was almost his undoing; he barely prevented himself from breaking down in tears. Cynthia hadn’t badgered him about how the thieves had gotten into the loft or where he’d been. She just really seemed to care about him. Swiping his fingers under his eyes, he choked out, “Yeah, thanks, I’ll be fine.” He didn’t really believe it, but he could hardly burden Cynthia with his worries.

After ending the call, Justin pocketed his phone and slid down the door jamb until his ass touched the floor. He drew his legs up against his body and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees, and settled in to wait for an enraged Brian or the cops - whomever showed up first.

 

Brian fumed to himself as he raced toward the loft in his jeep, driving far too fast for safety but not caring. Even though he had explicitly told Justin several times to always lock up after himself, the little twat must have neglected to do so. The brunet was so enraged at having to leave in the middle of a sales pitch that he refused to even consider any other possibility. He just kept thinking that he’d been fucked over by that stupid teenager he’d allowed to stay at the loft. And to top it all off, Marty would surely fuck up with Mr. Youngs, the representative of a condom company, a potential client Brian had been painstakingly wooing for months. Marty had probably never used a condom in his life, as attested to by the passel of preteens and teens that occasionally swarmed into Ryder Advertising to visit ‘Daddy Dearest’.

As Brian pulled his new jeep into a parking space in front of his building, he saw Michael hoofing it down the sidewalk toward him. Great. His insistent friend was just what he needed to make this horror of a day even more ‘perfect’. He stepped out of the vehicle, his Prada-clad foot landing in a pile of steaming dog shit. Fan-fucking-tastic, that stench was never coming off now. What was next? Condom client gone, loft burgled, whining best friend approaching, and his newest pair of shoes destroyed - the only way this Saturday could get any worse was if his dick fell off.

Brian steeled himself for the onslaught he knew was coming. He waited until Michael reached him, and sure enough, “Briaaaan,” whined Mikey, “wanna go to Woody’s with me? Emmett has the late shift at Torso, Ted’s busy with helping a friend with their taxes, and, well, I can’t go by myself.” Michael threw his arms out, batting his eyes in his patented woebegone puppy-dog way and pouting like a five-year-old. “You’ll go with me, won’t you, Brian?” he pleaded.

“I don’t give a fuck about Woody’s right now, Michael,” Brian growled, “My loft has been fucking burgled, and I don’t know yet if I even have a place to sleep.” He immediately realised that had been a stupid thing to say, when Michael’s eyes lit up and he grabbed Brian’s arm, breathlessly assuring him, “I’ll take care of you, Brian. You can stay with me and Em, and it’ll be almost like old times at my mom’s. Since the couch isn’t long enough for you to get any rest, you can share my bed.” Brian could almost see another light bulb going off over Michael’s head as he enthusiastically added, “We can watch Swayze together, just like we used to!”

There was no way Brian would take Michael up on that appalling offer but, going off the supposition that his friend meant to be helpful, he stated, “I doubt that will be necessary, but I won’t be able to make plans until I’ve seen the damage to my loft, Michael.” After removing Michael’s hand from his arm, Brian finally entered his apartment building, taking the stairs two at a time since he didn’t have the patience to wait for the elevator. He ignored the huffing and puffing of his best friend, who cried out, “Wait for me, Brian!”

Brian skidded to a halt after he crested the last step and saw a very forlorn Justin sitting in the doorway to the loft. The blond was a picture of misery, his eyes looking suspiciously inflamed, but Brian didn’t feel an iota of pity since, beyond Justin, he could see the result of the boy’s negligence. A gaping, empty space - no Italian Moda sofa, no Mies van der Rohe coffee table, no big-screen Sony LED television, no Apple computer loaded with the latest software, no naked guy painting on the wall. Even the kitchen counter had been cleared off, with his Vitamix blender and the Krups coffee machine nowhere in sight.

“What happened, little boy?” Brian jeered, “Was I asking too much of you when I told you to lock up and set the alarm if you went out?”

“I told you that you never should have let that blond trick stay here,” Michael wheezed after finally catching up with his best friend. The short brunet found it difficult to restrain his glee at the thought that Brian might finally boot Justin to the curb. Michael wasn’t sure that Brian had heard his criticism but, from the narrowing of Justin’s eyes, he was sure the annoying teenager had received the message.

“Well, Blondie?” Brian yelled, gesticulating toward the denuded loft when Justin didn’t say anything, “What’s your excuse?”

“I thought… I thought I did set it,” murmured the disconsolate teenager.

“You thought? So you don’t know?” Brian queried, his voice rising, “It’s pretty simple, you either did or you didn’t. Where the fuck were you, anyway?” he asked, hands resting on his hips.

Justin flinched at the brunet’s harsh tone. He had been so sure he had set the alarm, but the longer he was faced with Brian’s anger, the more uncertain he became. “I was at Molly’s birthday party and then I kind of took my time walking home,” he recounted in a small voice.

Brian sneered at him, an ugly glint in his eyes. “Well, while you were _kind of_ strolling around, taking your fucking time, I got _kind of_ robbed!”

Brian’s tirade got interrupted by the sound of the lift clattering to a stop at their floor, the metal grate rattling as a hefty, balding, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting grey suit clambered out onto the landing. “Why don’t you just take it easy,” he suggested to Brian, clearly having heard the tall brunet’s strident shouting.

“That’s all there’s left to take,” Brian snarked, not caring that the interloper was probably a flatfoot from the Pittsburgh PD.

The fellow did, as expected, turn out to be a policeman, identifying himself as, “Detective Carl Horvath, responding to a call about a robbery.”

Brian didn’t have much respect for the police, who often harassed members of the LGBT community simply because they were gay, and this rumpled, portly detective seemed like a particularly unprepossessing representative of the Pittsburgh Police Department. Even if the detective did make an effort to investigate the crime, Brian doubted he would be much help in tracking down his possessions or catching the burglars. He shrugged, sneering, “Detective Howard, if you’re looking for Justin Taylor, he’s the blond on the floor,” pointing at the boy, “the careless twink who left my loft unlocked and made it easy pickings for thieves.”

Carl sighed. He wished he hadn’t already been in the neighbourhood, having just finished up with questioning a bystander in regard to another case, when the request from dispatch for someone to swing by 6 Fuller had come through. He didn’t want to deal with this. It wasn’t that he disliked gays but he’d rather not have to talk to them as he wasn’t really sure how to go about it. In his experience, they rarely showed proper deference toward the police and made overly-emotional, unreliable witnesses. Exhaling, he corrected, “It’s Detective Horvath, not Howard. You are the owner of this apartment?”

Brian nodded but before he could divulge any more information, Mikey stepped in, “He’s Brian Kinney, the most famous resident of Liberty Avenue.”

Carl shot the yapping little man an irritated look. “This is the corner of Fuller and Tremont,” he said icily, “not Liberty Avenue.” See? He had known that gays were easily excitable and completely unreliable - some were clearly even unsure of their own address. “You live here too?” he asked the annoying fairy.

Michael opened his gob, but it was Brian who answered, “Jesus, no! I live alone,” he stated, throwing a cold look Justin’s way.

“But you’re-” Mikey stammered.

Brian, who was already incensed over his for-shit day, hissed at his best friend, “Can it, Mikey, you’re not helping,” barely refraining from clapping a hand over the idiot’s mouth.

“My _friend_ , Michael Novotny, just came round for a visit, Detective,” Brian spelled out, “he doesn’t live here.” Upon the copper’s prompting, Brian repeated both of their names, so that the policeman could jot them down accurately, as well as providing the bobby with his business card that had both his cell phone and work numbers on it.

Carl hunkered down next to Justin and inquired in a gruff but kind voice, “Mr. Taylor, can you describe to me in detail what you saw when you returned to the loft this evening?”

“Uh,” Justin had to stop when his voice hitched and fought to control his breathing, “the door, it was ajar, and it shouldn’t have been. I felt like I was in the middle of a horror movie, you know, and was scared that someone was going to jump out at me.” His voice trailed off and he wanted to cover his face in embarrassment as he realized what he’d just blabbed to the detective.

“It’s okay, son. The way you’re reacting to having your space violated is perfectly normal,” Car reassured the teen, ignoring a disgruntled huff from Brian at the use of the possessive pronoun.

“I didn’t do much of anything else before I called 9-1-1, sir,” Justin spoke in a weakened, strained voice. “I slid the door to the loft open and saw how there was nothing there, no furniture, nothing at all. I’m not sure how long I just stood there and stared before I figured out that I should call the police.”

“You did the right thing, son. Reporting a crime right away increases our chances of catching the criminals,” the detective stated, patting the blond on the shoulder before standing up.

“With your permission, Mr. Kinney, I’d like to have a look around your apartment,” Carl requested.

“Go ahead,” Brian sardonically invited, “it’s not as though there’s anything to see.”

Carl walked through the loft, his steps echoing on the hardwood floor. He started with the kitchen to his left, since the large living room was completely devoid of items and there was nothing to see. He glanced into all the cupboards, squatting down to look into the lower tier, and noting that all the cabinets doors were open but that almost nothing was on the shelves, except for an opened box of Cheerios and an almost empty packet of cocoa powder. Finishing with the perusal of the kitchen, he headed towards the back of the loft. After climbing the steps to the bedroom, the detective found hangers upon hangers - all stripped of clothes - dangling from the rod in the oversized walk-in closet, with a few t-shirts and cargo pants tossed onto the floor. The enormous bed frame, which appeared to be affixed to the floor, and the thick mattress were intact, but the bed was sans linens or pillows. On the floor, Carl could see faint outlines where a dresser and nightstands must have resided. Another vague outline on the wall above the bed indicated that perhaps a picture had been removed. When he stepped into the bathroom, which was situated to one side of the bedroom, he saw that the door to the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink was hanging askew, with all contents removed from the shelves. The situation was much the same inside the large shower cubicle, not even a bar of soap having been left on a ledge. The only signs that the bathroom was regularly used were a couple of toothbrushes which had been dumped into the sink and a partial roll of toilet paper on its roller next to the commode.

Carl shook his head, astounded by how thorough the robbers had been; they’d taken far more than just the high-ticket items. Except for the discarded clothes and a shabby-looking duffel bag, from which some clothes as well as a few textbooks spilled out onto the floor, nothing remained in the bedroom. Returning to the front door and the three men waiting there, he commented, “Mr. Kinney, as far as I can ascertain, it looks like the thieves took almost everything, which is very unusual. Normally burglars only take cash and items they can easily fence. This may have been more than a spur-of-the-moment crime. Do you have any suspicions as to who the guilty party might be? Have you had any strangers over recently, even a repairman who might have scoped out your apartment?”

Visions of all the nameless tricks who’d floated in and out of his loft in the past week flashed before Brian’s eyes, and he shifted uneasily before avowing, “No, I’ve been closely acquainted with everyone who’s come to see me.”

The officer nodded. “Very well. Now, if you could provide us with an inventory of your stolen possessions, Mr. Kinney, that would be very helpful,” Carl stated. “I’ll attach it to the incident report, and we’ll do our best to keep an eye out for any of the items appearing in pawn shops. I’ll also be interviewing the other tenants in your building to find out whether anyone might have seen any suspicious persons around. Someone might have even noticed the perpetrators as they carried your furniture and other belongings out of the building. I don’t want to give you false hope that we’ll recover your possessions, but we will do our best to track down the thieves.”

Brian fatalistically shrugged, not having expected the police to provide any meaningful assistance, “Whatever, Detective Horgan, it looks like the thieves were the ones who caught a lucky break when I allowed a shiftless teen to stay with me.”

Carl didn’t provide the correct name that time, guessing it might be some kind of stress deflection technique, and simply offered, “If this was a professional job, the burglars probably didn’t leave any identifying marks, but I’ll put in a request for one of our fingerprint technicians to stop by and dust for prints in case there’s a match in our database.” He elaborated, “Since a robbery doesn’t have priority over violent crimes, it may be a few days before someone is available, and you won’t be able to enter your apartment until the technician has finished up in here.”

“Why bother?” Brian shrugged again, “I really don’t see the point. I’ll just start the claim process with my insurance company, although I’ll have to rely on their files since both my paper and electronic records are gone.” As he spoke, Brian directed a pointed glare at Justin, who was still crouched on the floor.

Carl insisted, “The Pittsburgh PD must complete its inspection, including the fingerprinting, Mr. Kinney, now that the crime has been reported and logged in our records. If you think of anything that might help with the investigation, please contact me immediately,” Carl added, handing Brian one of his cards.

“Yeah, sure,” Brian agreed, “Can I at least look around for myself, so I can file a claim with the insurance company?”

“I don’t have a problem with that, as long as you don’t touch anything,” the detective responded, pulling out a roll of police tape that he’d slipped around one of his wrists as he was leaving his squad car. “I have to seal the scene, but I’ll step downstairs and give you a few minutes to yourself first. I do ask that you to lock up the apartment after you leave, so that it doesn’t get disturbed,” Carl requested.

Brian snorted. “What, you mean so that no one gets in? In case they wanted to nick something?” he asked sarcastically.

The detective gave him a long-suffering look. “Please, do as I say, Mr Kinney. Lock the door and leave the key with me, so that the technicians have a way to get in.”

“Maybe they should ask the burglars for advice,” snarked Brian, “they sure seemed to find a way through the ‘locked’ door,” he finished, looking at Justin intently.

The detective managed not to roll his eyes. Flaming, unreasonably emotional queers, he thought as he headed downstairs to give Kinney some time to inspect his loft.

Once the cop had left the scene, Brian rounded on Justin, yanking him to his feet and dragging him toward the bedroom, with Michael tagging along at their heels, keen on witnessing the blond’s humiliation. “Look here, you little brat,” spat Brian, shaking the teenager by his arm, “the burglars left your worthless, ratty clothes behind.”

Justin glanced first at his clothes, which were strewn across the floor, and then toward the bathroom, noticing with dismay that his allergy prescriptions had vanished, but he didn’t dare voice a complaint to Brian. He begged, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m sorry, okay?”

“You knew the rules,” Brian snarled, “I laid them out for you when I agreed that you could stay here. You can’t grab your shit since the detective said we weren’t to touch anything, but you can get the fuck out of here!”

Justin bit his lower lip to stave off a bout of tears before pushing a gloating Michael out of his way, rushing out of the loft, and scrambling down the stairs. He didn’t even notice when he passed the old detective on his way out of the building, his vision so blurry that he could hardly see anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Brian took a drag out of his joint and scowled at the red traffic light that was glaring at him. He had almost run the light in his haste to get to Muncherville but had managed to stomp on the brakes at the last moment. He’d probably left a strip of rubber on the asphalt, but no one would notice it amongst all the other marks on the road. Wondering why the weed wasn’t relaxing him like it should, Brian sniffed at the reefer he’d rolled just before leaving the loft. It smelled like top-grade dope, so he probably just needed to inhale a few more drags before it took effect.

He’d been thrilled to discover that his stash had remained safely hidden in the cunning compartment he’d had installed undeath his ginormous, custom-made bed. Another boon was his toy box, which had been nestled in next to the weed and all those lovely, lettered pills - _A, B, C, D, E, E, E_ \- that made up his pharmacopeia. He felt himself tensing up all over again as he remembered he couldn’t invite tricks over to his barren loft until the police had finished dusting for fingerprints and removed the crime scene tape, releasing the loft back into his care. To keep all his goodies safe and out of the sticky fingers of the gang, he’d have to stow everything in his safe deposit box at the bank. Brian slammed his hands down on the steering wheel in frustration since that meant he wouldn’t be able to access his drugs or toys when he needed them. He scowled over at the passenger seat where, atop the toy box, he’d placed a detailed list of all his precious, stolen possessions. That, of course, included every single fucking thing in the loft except his bed and that blond brat’s shit - his high-end furniture; his television, stereo system, and computer; his carefully-selected clothing bearing designer labels; even the bloody kitchen electrics and dishware - all gone.

Brian overshot Lindsay and Melanie’s white-picket-fenced house, stomped on the brakes, and then reversed until he squealed to a halt directly in front of the trellis which arched over the pathway leading to their front door. He nearly gave himself whiplash as he shot forward onto the steering wheel, unintentionally pressing on the horn, and then fell back against the back of the driver’s seat. Muttering about “fucking unreliable jeeps,” he patted his jacket to make sure the extra joint was still in his inner pocket, snatched up the inventory list, and stormed toward the house. Brian didn’t bother knocking, instead just threw open the door, which banged against the wall before flying back at him and nearly walloping him in the nose. “Linsay,” he bellowed irritably, “where the fuck are you?”

Sticking her head out of the kitchen with Gus cradled in her arms, Lindsay called out, “I’m over here, Brian. What are you on the warpath about now?”

Brian didn’t deign to answer, smacking the list down onto the kitchen counter and slumping onto a stool, before pulling the fresh doobie and his lighter out of his jacket. He had to flick the blasted lighter three times before the flame steadied so that he could hold it to the end of the joint.

Lindsay scowled at him, waving a hand on front of her face to keep the smoke away. “You know, you really shouldn’t smoke in here,” she lectured, “Gus is here and I’m still breastfeeding.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “Not like I’m shoving the joint in his mouth, is it?”

His blonde friend waved her hand again. “Ever heard of second-hand smoking? He’s breathing the toxins just as he would had you shoved it in his wee mouth.”

The brunet was immediately irritated. “What’s with the PSA? You sound like Justin.”

Lindsay pressed her lips into a thin line. “It was Justin who told me. He even said that third-hand smoking is also a thing. It’s when you have smoke clinging to your clothes and-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Brian interrupted her with a raised hand, “I have bigger problems than a bit of tar in the air. My loft got completely cleared out.”

That stopped her in her tracks. “What?” she breathed out.

“Justin left the door unlocked and someone took advantage. Everything except for our toothbrushes got nicked.” he explained.

Lindsay patted Gus on the back soothingly. “I can’t believe it, Brian, I’m so sorry. What are you going to do?”

“File an insurance claim and see how many months it takes before they cut me a check. I also have to wait for the cops to finish dicking around with fingerprinting the loft before they give me permission to move back in,” the brunet groused, managing to sound remarkably like an unhappy Gus when he wailed. “Then I’ll be able to sleep on my own bed - without my Egyptian cotton, 800 thread count sheets; a Krups coffee maker to brew my first cup of the morning; the Ironman treadmill for my evening jog; or the Vitamix blender to mix my creatine and soy shake.”

“Oh, Brian, you say that like it’s the end of the world.” chided Lindsay, “it could’ve been a lot worse. Imagine if Justin had been at home; he could’ve been hurt.”

The brunet muttered something indecipherable and Lindsay’s face scrunched up in a frown. “Come on, Brian, it’s not all that bad,” she tried to cajole her baby’s daddy into a better mood, “you know you’re always welcome to sleep on our couch.”

Brian gave her a humourless smile. “Right there amongst all the pussy hair?” he snarked, “no thanks.”

Lindsay managed not to roll her eyes. “Believe it or not, Mel and I don’t do it all around the house. Besides, we do have a hoover.”

Brian winced. “So you did do it on the couch.”

His friend huffed, “Honestly, Brian, you’re acting like a child. Just sleep on the couch and be grateful that you have a roof over your head. And who knows, this might even give you and Mel the opportunity to get to know each other better. You’re really a lot alike, you know.”

Brian scoffed and then decided to ignore the garbage Linds was spewing and waved his list in front of Lindsay’s face to distract her. “Did you hear me? I said every fucking single thing except for my bed is gone!”

Lindsay didn’t even try to suppress her smile as she waved more pot-laden air away from her face, “It’s not all that bad then, Brian, since that’s where you do most of your entertaining, any road.”

Brian refused to consider that she might have a point and railed some more, “They cleared out my loft, Lindsay! Furniture, TV, electronics, everything!” He waved the list in front of Lindsay’s face again. “And on top of all that, twelve Armani suits, four Gucci belts, and six pairs of Prada shoes. You know, I’m starting to suspect gay on gay crime.”

His blonde friend smiled cheekily at him. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised, since you have more visitors than Disney World,” she said in her distinguished voice.

Brian shot her a look. “Thanks for the sympathy, Cinderella.”

Lindsay shook her head, bouncing Gus on her hip. “That doesn’t even make sense, Brian.”

The brunet shrugged. “I’m off my game today, I’m experiencing some possession withdrawal symptoms. Do you think I could claim compensation for that too? I mean, those bastards even took all of my condoms!”

Lindsay bit her bottom lip, before pouting at Gus. “At least they’re practicing safe sex, right Gussy?”

Brian stared at her. “Hilarious,” he deadpanned.

There was a beat of silence as Brian watched the blonde wipe Gus’ face, cleaning away the milk dripping down the lad’s chin. “So, why isn’t he with you?” she asked suddenly.

“Who?”

Lindsay gave him an exasperated look. “Justin.”

The ad executive slapped the stupid list down on the counter. “I don’t know; I told him to get the hell out.”

His friend stared at him in shock. “You sent him away?” she asked, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he had said.

Brian glared at a spot over Lindsay’s head. “Look, I did him a favour when I let him stay at the loft, and this is how he repays me. He should be glad I’m not asking him to compensate me.”

The lesbian still looked horrified. “He didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Would you please stop making excuses for him?” he almost shouted, banging his closed fist on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, “must be a force of habit.”

Brian sighed. “Will you look over the list? I don’t think I missed anything, but in case you think of something…”

Lindsay snatched the paper from the counter, grabbing a pen from a cup on the end of the counter. “Oh yeah,” she said with a quirk of her brow, “there’s one valuable item that’s missing that can’t be replaced.”

Brian watched as she scrawled something across his list before sliding it back over to him. Six enormous block letters spelled out Justin’s name diagonally across the paper. Brian felt a twinge of something in his gut - probably indigestion - and immediately suppressed it.

“Great,” he said sarcastically, “now I’ll have to rewrite the whole thing before I give it to the police.”

Lindsay just left the kitchen without another word.

 

As Brian was settling down to sleep that evening, covering himself with an ugly patchwork blanket, Justin was hastening through the darkened streets of Pittsburgh toward the nearest bus station. He had been in such a shock from everything that had happened that day that, after running out of Brian’s building, he had wandered around in a daze for a few hours, unable to think coherently about what he should do or where he should go. He had briefly contemplated catching a bus to Daphne’s house, but that would have involved two transfers, which would’ve taken forever. It wouldn’t be all that great a solution, any road, as Daphne would have had to sneak him into her room for the night in secrecy, lest the Chanders find out and freak. Had they discovered him there, Mr Chanders would undoubtedly have felt bound to report back to his dad, since the two men were longtime golfing buddies. They teed off promptly at eleven o’clock every Sunday morning at the country club and shared a pint or two afterwards, while they discussed the latest news. It was really a gossip session, but Justin remembered his father insisting that they debated over important social and economic topics. Justin had called bullshit then and he was calling it now, too.

He was brought out of his musings when he stumbled over a protrusion in the sidewalk, bumping into a leather daddy who was strolling down the sidewalk arm in arm with a flamboyant drag queen in a ruched orange dress.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as the queen reached out to steady him.

“No harm done, Cutie,” the drag queen replied in a deep, Aussie-accented voice. She winked at him with long, false eyelashes and added, “but if you feel like company later tonight, ask for Marvella and DC at Boy Toy. We’d take good care of you,” she finished suggestively.

Waving halfheartedly in farewell, Justin brooded that at least someone wanted his company. He knew that he was being overly dramatic, but he couldn’t manage to escape the fog of misery that had been weaving thicker and thicker around him throughout the day. He did feel a little better than a few hours ago, though. He had been utterly depressed while sitting on a park bench, the sky darkening above him as he let the tears flow and released his anguish. He had choked back the feeling of betrayal as he remembered Brian’s reaction, his lover’s angry words chipping away at his assurance that he had locked the loft as he was leaving for Molly’s birthday party. He had gone over and over his memories of that moment, and every single time had come to the realisation that he couldn’t remember it clearly. He had been so sure that he had locked Brian’s loft and set the alarm right before he had dropped his drawing of Molly, but Brian’s certainty that it was all his fault had rattled him.

Justin sighed forlornly, once again shaking himself out of his morose thoughts. He took out his cellphone, checking his screen for messages, and started when he noticed the time. It was already past nine o’clock. He picked up his pace, hurrying toward the Greyhound bus station, where he’d decided to bunk down for the night. It was a better option than sleeping in the park since he’d be sheltered from the cold of the night in the vestibule of the station.

His cellphone already in hand, Justin decided to ring Daphne. When she picked up with a, “Hey, boyfriend, what’s up?” he had to smile in spite of his anguish. He could always count on his best friend to lift his spirits.

“Hiya, Daph,” he greeted with false cheeriness, “you, eh, you got time to meet me at the diner for brekkie tomorrow morning?”

“Sure, what time?” the bubbly young woman responded. “I mean, I have to check that my mom won’t be using her car since my dad will be driving his to the golf course, but we can meet up for sure.”

Justin didn’t say anything for a moment, as a pang of sorrow and anger shot through him at the mention of golf. He remembered he had accompanied his dad to a game a few times when he was a wee kid. Those days were long gone. “Uh, I dunno, how about ten o’clock?” he quickly suggested when he realized Daphne was still waiting for him to say something.

His best friend hummed in agreement. “Unless my mom needs the car, in which case I’ll call you back and arrange to meet later on.” Daphne paused for a moment and then said in a quieter voice, “Justin, I’m sorry; I didn’t think. That was clumsy of me, mentioning golf.”

“No reason for you to apologize, Daph,” Justin retorted, trying to sound nonchalant, “I should probably get used to the fact that dad is an arsehole.” He didn’t know what else to say since he didn’t think he could fake a good mood much longer, and he didn’t want his friend to catch on and realise something was wrong. No sense in both of them worrying through the night.

Fortunately, before the discussion could get awkward, Daphne suddenly said, “Oh, I gotta go, Justin. I told my mom I’d help her make risotto for dinner.”

“Okay, Daph, see you tomorrow,” Justin reminded his friend before ending the call. He sighed. He knew something was really wrong, when his stomach didn’t make the slightest rumble at the mention of food. He normally wolfed down three large meals per day, with snacks thwarting his hunger pangs in between meals; now, however, he kept remembering the burn of bile in his throat and couldn’t possibly have eaten a bite without upchucking it right after.

A few minutes after ending the phone call, Justin reached the bus station. It took him about another twenty minutes to find an unoccupied bench - winos were kipping on two of them; and, in spite of the late hour, visitors waiting to greet arrivals and passengers anticipating their departure had claimed almost all the other seating. In the end he found a little excuse for a bench, which wouldn’t have been comfortable for many men or women, but his short, slender stature proved to be an advantage for a change. He scrunched his messenger bag into a makeshift pillow on one end of the bench and lay down on his side, drawing his knees in toward his chest. He fidgeted for a bit, the metal of the bench hard and cold underneath him. Finally, after several long minutes, he dozed off and lost himself in pleasant dreams of fucking Brian.

He woke up several times during the night, once because one of his legs fell off the edge of the bench, once because of a loud snore from one of the other itinerants, and twice shivering from the chilly air in the vestibule. It was no wonder that when he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder the next morning, he felt like shite.

A strong stench of boozy, stale breath hit him in the face as he forced his eyes open. “You need to wake up, kid, and get outta here with the rest of us,” a hoarse voice rasped in his ear. “Them coppers don’t much care if we sleep inside here at night, but they clear us outta the way during the day. Ain’t no sense in gettin’ hauled in for no reason at all.”

“Uh . . . what?” Justin croaked as he took in the stubbly, jowly face next to his own. The blond wondered if this was some kind of dream since there was no way this was a trick that Brian had brought home.

“Your first time here, eh?” the drunkard inquired, another whiff of his unwashed body and alcohol-charged breath flowing over Justin’s face and clogging his nostrils.

When a bus pulled up right outside the doors, belching exhaust and adding to the miasma of odors surrounding Justin, he finally remembered the events of the previous day. “Uh, thanks for waking me up, mister,” Justin said as he scrambled to his feet, hurriedly looping his messenger bag over his shoulder.

“You need a warm meal, kid?” his benefactor asked, also stumbling to his feet, having been crouched over Justin to wake him up. “Loaves and Fishes over on Trinity Way always puts out a good spread for breakfast. You can come with me if you want.”

“That’s okay. I’m meeting a friend for breakfast in a bit, but I appreciate the offer,” Justin replied, nearly blinding the hobo with one of his sunshiny grins. What a nice person for a street drunk, he thought.

“Wow, that’s some smile you’ve got there, kid,” the wino stated as he tilted backward on his heels and almost fell on his ass.

“Oh, be careful!” Justin cried, grabbing the man’s elbow, helping him regain his footing.

“No biggie. I’ve landed on me keister more’n once,” the drunk averred with a gap-toothed grin. “Now, listen, lad. If that breakfast don’t pan out for ya and you need someone to show you the ropes, you come back here any night and ask for Jed, okay?”

Justin beamed at the vagabond again and said, “I’ll be sure to do that, Jed.” Justin waved and started to leave the station before spinning around and asking, “Oh, do you need any help getting over to Loaves and Fishes? I can walk over there with you before meeting my friend.”

Jed let out a raspy chuckle, “Nah, kid, I’ve been going there near every day for nigh on ten years, so I reckon I can find my way there again today.”

“Ok, you take care of yourself, Jed,” Justin told the man, stepping forward to clasp his hand and give it a sincere shake. He waved at Jed again and was heartened when he received a shaky wave in return. Justin was glad to make friends wherever he could, and the hobo’s efforts to help that morning had done a lot to restore his faith in humanity. In fact, the old man had inspired him to face his situation and deal with it like an adult instead of running away to New York to become a go-go boy, an idea he’d briefly flirted with the night before. He would make a go of it, he muttered adamantly under his breath as he walked down Liberty towards the diner. Not only would he get a job so that he could take care of himself, he’d also pay Brian back for the burgled goods, even if it took him years to do so. There was no question in Justin’s mind that he owed Brian for standing up to Craig with him and for providing a safe place for Justin to stay when he most needed it - and this was the least he could do to thank Brian for all his help.

It was only eight o’clock, leaving Justin plenty of time to reach the diner before Daphne got there, so he strolled along, stopping to look into shop windows whenever something caught his fancy. The only reason he noticed the shop with the narrow storefront was because of the vibrant fuchsia awning - man, but only Emmett could possibly rock that color, the blond thought to himself. Justin couldn’t recall any store previously being in that location, but the swirling, purplish-pink lettering on the door proclaimed ‘Second Hand Job’ to be Liberty Avenue’s finest consignment shop, with ready-made clothing available to meet every need.

“Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t the young bloke from last night,” drawled a tall queen wearing a lime-green wig in a broad Australian accent, while hanging a pink display dress on a peg in the front of the shop.

Crap, thought Justin, he had run into her and her partner the night before when he’d been so out of it, hadn’t he? “Uh, hi?”

“You don’t remember me do you?” she deflated visibly, “so much for thinking it was impossible for anyone to forget a dame like me.”

Justin shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, I was a bit out of it,” he excused himself, “but… uh, I’m very intrigued by your shop. I don’t think I’ve seen it here before.”

“We opened just last week,” explained the queen before continuing, “Look, I’ll tell you what, you stop by anytime and ask for Marvella. I’ll help you find the right togs for any occasion.”

Justin gave her the best smile he could muster. “Thanks, Marvella, I’ll come back as soon as I have my first paycheck in hand,” he promised. “Now, I need to get going, but I’ll see you around.”

“You’re always welcome, Sugar. Bye for now,” Marvella called as she turned to enter the shop.

Justin trotted on toward the diner, intent on fortifying himself with caffeine in case he met any more odd characters that day. When he finally reached his favorite greasy spoon, it was still just shy of nine o’clock, so he had plenty of time to pour a few cups of strong black coffee down his throat before Daphne arrived. As he entered, the bell above the door jingling, he looked around and was grateful that none of the gang were in this early on a Sunday morning. No judgmental whispers or sidelong glances for him yet then.

The blond was just sliding into a booth near the back of the eatery when an unmistakeable voice screeched, “Sunshine, what are you doing here at this time of day?”

“Hey, Deb,” Justin greeted her, pasting a smile onto his face and hoping she wouldn’t quiz him about the burglary. The last thing he needed was for her to spill the beans in front of the whole diner, and he couldn’t imagine Michael keeping it to himself that Brian’s teenaged stalker had finally got his comeuppance. Deb surprised him, though, joshing with him just like she would any other time.

“Hey, Deb?” repeated the redhead in offended astonishment, “What kind of a pissant hello is that, Sunshine?” she asked, directing a dubious look his way before pulling him upright and enveloping him in a rib-cracking hug.

“Uh, Deb?” gasped Justin, “oxygen?”

The colourful waitress didn’t let up, though, and in the end Justin had to forcibly extricate himself from the life-threatening embrace. He tapped his forefinger against one of the buttons on Debbie’s vest, “My balls are bigger than yours,” he read, chuckling, “I think we all already knew that, Deb.”

“Damn right, Sunshine,” she cackled, tousling his hair lightly. “Now you come on over to your regular booth and tell me what you want for breakfast,” she demanded, dragging Justin along by the arm and pushing him onto the upholstered vinyl seat.

“How about some coffee for now?” the blond suggested, “and I’ll order breakfast after Daph gets here.” Since the fiver in his wallet wasn’t enough to cover a meal, let alone the allergy medications he desperately needed to replace, he was going to have to ask his best friend to lend him some money, like it or not.

“Hmpfh, you don’t usually wait on anyone before ordering food to fill that bottomless pit of yours,” Deb commented as she turned toward the counter to grab the coffee pot. “Why don’t you start with some hash browns and scrambled eggs, and you can order more after your friend arrives?”

“I’m not really all that hungry, Deb,” Justin lied, just as his stomach let out a noisy growl.

“Not hungry, my ass,” Deb chuckled as she returned to the table, coffee pot in hand. She took a closer look at the blond teen and stated, “You really look like shit, Sunshine,” before placing the back of her other hand against his forehead and adding, “You’re a little warm. Are you feeling all right?”

Oh, fuck, Justin thought to himself, I must look pretty bad after spending the night at the Greyhound station. But what could he tell Deb to allay her concern and get her off his case?

It turned out he didn’t need to say anything since Deb didn’t pause long enough for him to answer before claiming, “I don’t know what Brian was thinking to let you go out like this, but I suggest you drag your bubble butt right back to the loft and crawl back into bed. You look like you’re coming down with something.”

When Daphne breezed through the door at ten minutes after ten, Justin was still protesting to Deb that he was perfectly fine as she refilled his coffee cup for the fourth time. Zeroing in on her friend, Daphne gazed at him in dismay, curling her upper lip and scrunching up her nose, before exclaiming, “What happened to you, Justin? You look like you slept outdoors or something.” She held her hand up to cover her nose, “And, geez, what is that smell?”

Deb chortled, “Eau de jizz, I’m sure, since Brian can’t keep his dick away from Sunshine.”

Justin wanted to sink under the table from mortification and just barely stopped himself from sniffing at his armpit to see if he really did stink. He feared he might be too congested to smell anything, though, since not taking his allergy medication first thing in the morning was already making his sinuses swell up.

While Justin was worrying over whether he had bad body odor, Daphne slid into the seat across from him, barely escaping a full-body hug from Debbie. His friend grinned cheekily at him and stated, “I’d order whatever you’re having but, for some reason, you’re not eating.” She stopped talking for a moment to consider him and then reached across to take one of Justin’s hands, brow furrowing with worry, “Hey, are you feeling okay, Jus?”

Now Justin wanted to bang his head on the table in frustration as he wondered what was up with the women in his life. Couldn’t a guy go without food for ten minutes without getting mother henned to death? “I’m fine, I was just being polite and waiting for you before ordering,” he muttered.

“Since when do you wait to eat?” Daph asked in astonishment. “I remember on my fifteenth birthday, you started gobbling down your piece of cake before I had even been served.”

Justin blushed again, cursing his fair complexion which so clearly betrayed his embarrassment, and defended himself, “Yeah, er, I was hungry.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, Daphne stated, “Case in point. I repeat, since when do you wait for me?”

Justin threw his hands up in exasperation, “Since today, okay? I do have some manners, you know.”

Daphne looked at her friend skeptically before laughing, “We’ll see how long that lasts. So, now that I’m here, what are we eating?” 

Looking up at the redheaded waitress, who’d been enjoying their raillery, Justin said, “How about those hash browns and scrambled eggs you mentioned, Deb? Oh, and a side of bacon.” As Deb headed toward the chef’s window to submit their order, Justin called after her, “A couple of those blueberry waffles, too, please.”

Daphne tugged on Justin’s hand, which she still held in her own, “What’s up, Jus? I can’t remember the last time you wanted to get together so early on a Sunday.”

Justin still felt reluctant about relating the whole tale, but at least he knew Daphne would be on his side and wouldn’t blame him, even if he had been dumb enough to forget to set the alarm in the loft. After looking around the room to be certain no one would overhear him, he blurted out, “Brian’s loft got burgled last night. When he came home, he accused me of not setting the alarm, and then he kicked me out.”

“What?” Daphne yelled before lowering her voice, ignoring the looks the other diner patrons sent her way. “Slow down and say that again. I don’t think I heard you right.”

Justin slowly explained how he’d gone to Molly’s birthday party, glossing over what had happened there, and then told her how, when he’d returned to the loft, the door had been ajar. At that point in the story, Deb delivered their breakfast, plunking down the plates and two glasses of orange juice. “You need to drink something besides coffee, and if you’re coming down with a cold, a little vitamin C is the best thing for you, Sunshine,” the motherly waitress opined. “What are you two looking so serious about, anyway? No doom and gloom on a Sunday morning, you hear?” She would have inquired further as to what was wrong, but a couple of queens at another booth started up a racket, so she traipsed over to them. “You’ll be wearing your coffee instead of drinking it, if you don’t calm down,” she growled at them.

Daphne ignored her food and Deb’s interruption, questioning Justin further, “What happened next, Jus? It must have been creepy to find the loft unlocked.”

“Fuck, yes!” the blond responded, “I was terrified that Jack Nicholson was on the other side of the door, saying, ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ and waving an axe around.”

Shivering in anticipatory horror, Daphne repeated, “What happened next?”

Justin wilted as he replied, “It was hellish, but not because of ‘Johnny’ or any other axe-wielding murderers.” Justin then proceeded to tell Daphne about the emptied loft, about how he’d called 9-1-1, and about Brian charging up the stairs with Michael behind him. He then sped through the detective’s arrival and through Brian chucking him out of the loft.

Daphne gaped at her best friend when he finally finished, “But, what did you do last night, Jus? Where did you go? Why didn’t you come sneak into my room?”

“I didn’t want you to cause trouble for you,” Justin responded earnestly, “we both know how your parents are. Besides, had I stayed with you, I’d probably be halfway to New York right about now.” When his friend raised her brows expectantly at hearing that, Justin sheepishly mentioned his original scheme to support himself and explained how - after he’d slept in the bus station and met a kindly hobo in the morning - he’d nixed that harebrained idea. He also told her about his decision to get a job to pay Brian back for the stolen goods.

“So, how can I help?” Daphne asked, and Justin smiled at her gratefully. This was exactly why she was his best friend - she didn’t lecture him; she didn’t ask any unnecessary questions; she just wanted to do anything she could to make things easier for him. “You can stay with me for a bit?” she offered hesitatingly.

Justin looked at his friend sadly, “Thank you for the offer, but I still refuse to cause trouble for you, Daph. What I really need right now is to brainstorm ideas about how I can pay Brian back.” Chuckling rather despairingly, he muttered, “My original plan to be a go-go dancer in New York probably wasn’t the best of ideas.”

“I don’t know,” teased Daphne, “I’d pay to see you dancing on a bar.” She then added with a wide grin, “I recall you having some pretty smooth moves - from those ballroom dance lessons at the country club and all.”

Justin chuckled at his friend’s words, eyes boring into the tabletop, before rather desperately asking, “Could you lend me some money? I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, but right now, I’ve just got five dollars in my wallet, and that’s not even enough to cover my breakfast.”

Intent on their conversation, neither of the teens had noticed that Debbie had gravitated toward their table and had been listening in for some time. They only realized she was there, in fact, when Deb slid into the booth next to Justin and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Kiddo, I’m so proud of the way you’re handling this,” she told him, “and as far as a job, you can work here at the diner. Our newest busboy didn’t show up for his last two shifts, so you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Deb, I don’t have any experience,” Justin protested, “are you sure you really need another busboy? That you’re not just saying that?”

Letting out a hearty guffaw, Deb retorted, “Of course not, Kiddo, I’m sure you’ll be trained within a day and you’ll be great. The salary doesn’t amount to much but, I guarantee you, between your sunshine smile and that bubble butt, you are gonna earn some mighty fine tips.”

“Are you really sure you want someone like me working here?” Justin asked quietly, unsure how much Deb had overheard. Looking down at his lap, he added, “It may be my fault that Brian’s loft got burgled.”

Deb took Justin’s chin in her hand and waited until he looked her in the eyes before stating firmly, “Everyone makes mistakes, Sunshine; it’s how you deal with them that matters.”

Justin smiled a bit tremulously before asking, “When can I start?” his question overlapping Daphne’s query, “Do you know of any place he could stay for the time being?”

Debbie chuckled, “Of course I know where Sunshine’s going to stay; he’s going to move into Michael’s old room.”

Before she was able to add anything else, Justin interjected, “That’s too generous, Deb. I, uh, I don’t have any money yet to pay rent.”

“Rent? Who said anything about rent?” Debbie shrieked. “Vic will enjoy having some eye candy in the house,” she winked, “and maybe this will finally motivate Michael to clear out the rest of his stuff.” Wistfully, she added, “Or maybe he’ll take the doc up on his offer to move in with him.”

Daphne muttered, “Go for it, Justin. Living with Vic and Deb will be a helluva lot nicer better than any other accommodations you could find.” When Justin opened his mouth, presumably to make further objections, Daphne added the clincher, “You’ll be able to compensate Brian a lot faster if you don’t have to worry about paying rent.”

Deb beamed at Daphne and approved, “You listen to your friend, Sunshine. You won’t have to worry about buying food, either, since I already cook enough to feed an army, and your food at the diner is comped when you’re working, starting with your breakfast today.”

Justin didn’t have a chance to say anything before Daphne tried to hand him some money. “Here, I can lend you a hundred dollars, Jus. That should be enough to tide you over till you get paid.”

The boisterous redhead pushed Daphne’s hand away and declared, “You keep your cash, Honey. I’ll give Sunshine an advance on his salary so he can buy some clothes and other essentials.”

“Thanks, Deb,” Justin stammered, feeling his eyes sting suspiciously as he was so overwhelmed by her kindness that he could hardly speak.

“That’s all settled, then.” Deb gestured toward the kitchen, continuing, “C’mon, Sunshine, let’s get you an apron and you can start right away.”

Embarrassed, Justin squirmed briefly before getting up from the booth and requesting, “Could I just go get my prescriptions refilled first, Deb?” Glad to have an excuse for his watery eyes, he reached up to blot at them with his napkin before using it to blow his nose. “I don’t want the customers to think I’m going to infect them with something, when it’s really just my allergies acting up.”

“Skedaddle and get those meds, Sunshine,” Debbie agreed, “but then hurry back so you’ll be here for the lunch hour. That’s when the queers of Liberty Avenue usually make their first appearance on a Sunday.”

His chagrin increasing, Justin coughed, “Uh, could you give me part of that advance now so I can pay for the medications?”

“Sure thing, Kiddo,” Debbie said, reaching into her apron and pulling out fifty dollars. “Will that be enough?” she inquired as she handed the money to Justin.

“That’s plenty, Deb,” the blond responded with a relieved smile. “It shouldn’t take long since my pharmacy is just downtown.

“You want to come with me, Daph?” Justin asked, “no need to drive me over there since it’ll be almost as quick to walk.”

“I’ll pass, but I’ll hold down the table for you so I can be your first customer,” Daphne teasingly replied.

Justin was still chuckling over that remark as he exited the diner, double-timing it to the pharmacy because he was so excited to be starting his first job. His parents had always given him an allowance, his dad never wanting him to even have a newspaper route since he feared that would make it look like he couldn’t provide for his family. This new job might not be the most glamorous ever, but the blond would be taking the first step toward providing for himself and paying Brian back.

At the pharmacy, Justin rushed up to the counter and asked how long it would take to refill his prescriptions. “You’re in luck, young man,” the gray-haired, bespectacled pharmacist answered, “it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes since we have all three of these medications in stock, and there’s no one in line ahead of you.”

Justin had been irrationally nervous that the druggist would ask why he was refilling his prescriptions more than a week early - perhaps the man would think he was a junkie? - so he apologized profusely for getting the refills so soon and mentioned the burglary.

The pharmacist started laughing before he said, “Calm down; I’ve seen you many times before and don’t think you’re a crazed addict. There’s a grace period allowing for early pick-up of refills. People have all sorts of legitimate reasons why they need their meds before they run out of pills.”

“Thanks, Mr. Tregennis,” Justin stammered as he paid for the prescriptions and a bottle of water. Since there was no one else waiting to see the pharmacist, Justin didn’t move away from the counter - pulling the medications out of the bag, taking a pill out of each bottle, popping them into his mouth, and gulping them down with water. Mr. Tregennis looked on in amusement the whole while, until the blond youngster tossed the med bottles back into the bag and bolted out the door.

As Justin jogged back to the diner, he patted at his pockets, checking for his mobile. Where was the blasted thing? His moves became more frantic. He was pretty sure he'd still had it at the Greyhound depot, but maybe he'd dropped it after talking to Daph on his way to the station? Or someone had nicked it. That would be just his luck - not have it stolen in the burglary only for some pickpocket to pinch it. When he couldn't find his cellphone after thoroughly searching all of his pockets, Justin fatalistically shrugged. It was an old model, and there hadn't been much credit left, so it didn't really matter much, he tried to convince himself. He'd just have to make do without it.

Half an hour after he’d left the diner, Justin rushed back inside, almost crashing into Debbie as she delivered a hot fudge sundae to Daphne. “Shit, sorry Deb,” Justin apologized, “I didn’t mean to barge in like that. I guess I’m just eager to start working.”

“It’s okay, Sunshine,” Deb replied, “you’re back before the lunch horde. Let me show you where to stow your stuff, how to refill the coffee machine, and what you’ll use to clear off tables.”

For the next three hours, Daphne alternated between reading ‘Out’ and watching in fascination as Justin bustled around clearing tables, brewing fresh pots of coffee, and serving drinks to the lunchtime crowd. When the blond finally had a chance to stop and chat, she noticed he was rubbing his posterior. “Ugh,” Justin murmured when he realized Daphne had caught him massaging his ass, “those two elderly queens who just left sure do have powerful fingers.”

As Daphne realized they’d been pinching her best friend’s ass, she began to laugh uproariously, gasping, “Well you can hardly blame them for wanting to grab hold of a juicy rear end like yours, Jus.”

Justin frowned at first but then started to laugh, too. “I’m telling you, Daph, besides money, I’ve collected the most bizarre tips: pinches, slips with phone numbers, and - best of all - a new dildo.” With a theatrical flourish, Justin pulled the the bright red dildo out of the long pocket at the front of his apron and placed it on the table in front of Daphne. The unopened sex toy was still encased in a hard plastic covering, with a ‘The Promised Land’ sticker in the corner, and had clearly never been used.

“Wow, Sunshine, you really scored,” Deb called out as she came up behind him, “I’ve never been given a dildo as a gratuity.” Examining the toy more closely, she exclaimed, “You can set this one to ten different vibrations, Sunshine!”

Both Daphne and Justin were blushing furiously by that point as more of the diner patrons clustered around the table to take a look. Justin had only meant to have a laugh with Daphne, not share his ‘tip’ with the whole diner. He couldn’t escape the ribbing though, what with Debbie’s enthusiasm about his toy and various catcalls.

Once the hilarity had finally tapered off and the crowd around the booth had dispersed, Justin asked, “Hey, Daph, could I borrow your calculus textbook for a couple days? The police have mine under lock and key at the loft, and I’m kind of worried about our upcoming exam.” The blond admitted, “I’ve been struggling a bit, and there’s no way I want that subject to ruin my 4.0 GPA.”

Daphne scoffed, “Like you’re going to earn less than an ‘A’ in calc, Jus, although you might conceivably score 98 instead of 100 on the test.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather get 100 and thumb my nose at Hobbs and all the other brainless jocks who keep making my life miserable,” Justin postulated with a cold gleam in his eyes.

“Those damned bullies!” Daphne bitterly exclaimed. “If it will help you show up Mr. Dixon, that homophobic jerk of a math teacher, you can have my textbook for the entire week.” 

“I shouldn’t need it that long, Daph,” Justin reassured his friend, “since the police will either release the apartment back to Brian, and I’ll get my stuff from him somehow, or maybe I’ll be able to check out a copy from the library.”

“We can share our other textbooks during class, but what are you going to do about your uniform?” Daphne questioned with a worried frown.

“I should have just enough money to pick up some used clothing that resembles our uniform this afternoon,” Justin stated confidently, “so don’t fash yourself about it.”

Daph fidgeted with her coffee cup, looked down at the coffee table, and murmured, “I might have a pair of sweats at home that belong to you.” She didn’t dare look at Justin in case it dawned on her friend that she’d been holding on to the sweatpants because she had a crush on him. Even though she knew it was hopeless, she couldn’t eradicate her infatuation, which had only grown stronger in the last year. She figured Jus now  needed the sweats more than she did, though; he’d only lent them to her because someone had jostled her arm at school one day, causing her to spill her Coke all over her grey skirt. Justin had pulled the sweats out of his locker so she’d have something dry to wear.

“It would be great if that’s the case. You could bring them to school tomorrow!” Justin enthused, apparently not remembering the Coke incident or else not thinking it meant anything for Daph to still have a pair of his sweatpants.

At that moment, Debbie yelled out, “Sunshine, if you clear off the tables in the back, we’ll both be done for the day. I’ll just close out the cash register and hand it over to Kiki. Then we can head home so I can show you Michael’s old room and give you a key to the house.”

With a bright grin, Justin claimed, “That sounds great, Deb.”  The blond then turned to his best friend, gave her a quick farewell hug, and promised to see her the next day at school before bustling toward the back of the diner.

Shortly thereafter, Justin followed Debbie into her house, the gobby redhead shouting out, “Vic, are you here?”

“What’s all the fuss, Sis?” Vic inquired as he shuffled out of the kitchen, still clad in his pyjamas.

“Victor Grassi!” Deb shrieked, “Why are you still wearing your pjs?”

“Fuck, Sis, I didn’t know we were expecting visitors,” Vic replied, “at least not till dinner time.”

“Sunshine’s no visitor, Vic. He’s our new housemate,” Debbie delightedly announced.

“Shit, Justin, I’d pay to have you stay here,” Vic asserted while playfully leering at the blond.

“Ignore the old lecher,” Deb fondly teased her brother, gesturing for Justin to precede her up the stairs.

“So here it is, Sunshine,” Deb said as she opened the door to Michael’s old room and switched on the light. “What do you think?”

Justin was at a loss for what to say about the wallpaper, drapes, and bedding, all of which were covered with some sort of comic book character that he didn’t recognize. “Eh, I’m grateful that you’re providing a place for me to stay,” Justin beamed his sunniest smile at Deb, purposefully avoiding any commentary on the childish decor.

Deb pulled open one of the dresser drawers and offered, “Look, here are some of Michael’s old tees. You can put one on after you wash up.”

Justin dubiously eyed the lurid green tees, every one of which had either the Green Lantern or the Green Arrow plastered across the front. “Um, I really think I’ll stick with what I already have, Deb,” he declined through a clenched smile.

Deb grinned back at her houseguest, not noticing Justin’s revulsion, “Let me show you where the linen closet and upstairs bathroom are located so you can wash up. When you’ve settled in, come downstairs and I’ll give you a key.” After opening the linen closet, Deb pursed her lips thoughtfully and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want some fresh clothes, Sunshine? I think Michael left some other stuff in the dresser that would fit you.”

“I’ll be fine, really," Justin hastily assured his benefactress, tacking on, “I’m going to pick out a few things that’ll do until I can get my duffle bag from Brian’s.”

“You be sure to let me know if you need any clothing,” Deb reiterated, “I know Michael wouldn’t mind sharing.”

Justin doubted that was true and bit his lip to keep from making a disparaging remark. “Thanks, Deb, I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Justin replied. Once the redhead had vanished, Justin quickly washed up before following her downstairs to get a house key.

“Now you be sure to be back by six o’clock,” Debbie insisted, “You’re part of the family, and we all eat together every Sunday, no matter what.”

“Okay, Deb, Justin promised, “I’ll be here,” before heading out to the check consignment shops.

 

A couple hours later, the blond returned, wallet emptied of all but a couple dollars, but satisfied that he’d been able to purchase clothes and shoes that closely resembled his school uniform as well some new briefs, undershirts, and socks. He’d even managed to ‘return’ the vibrant red dildo to ‘The Promised Land’, which had netted him an additional forty dollars.

He had found himself thinking regularly about Brian with deep longing while he shopped. It hadn’t even been a full day since he’d last seen his lover - ex-lover at this point, Justin corrected himself - but he missed the brunet terribly. He’d even imagined once or twice that he’d heard Brian’s distinctive baritone making snarky remarks about his sartorial choices, only to find nobody around when he looked. The only reason he hadn’t started scriking right then and there was because he knew he had a job to do. Now, pushing open the door to Debbie’s house, he was keen on quickly disappearing upstairs before he broke down in tears as he had nothing else to busy himself with.

He tried to slip past the kitchen, but the redheaded waitress turned away from the cooker just as he was tiptoeing down the hallway and noticed him. “Sunshine,” she called, “do you want to learn how to make linguine with mascarpone and spinach sauce?”

“Sure thing, Deb,” Justin replied before he could properly think about it. He immediately regretted his good upbringing that urged him to offer help whenever someone asked for it. He was still feeling the stinging pressure behind his eyes as he tried to keep it together, and the last thing he needed was Debbie noticing anything and calling him out on it. “Just let me dump these bags upstairs, and I’ll be right with you,” he added after a few seconds of contemplation, showing Debbie his shopping bags. The least he could do was throw some cold water on his face to reduce the puffiness around his red eyes.

“Sure,” agreed Debbie, her back already turned towards him again.

Later that evening, after almost everyone had arrived, a knock at the door interrupted Justin and Debbie’s culinary endeavors. “Do you want me to get that, Deb?” the blond asked.

“If you could, Sunshine,” Debbie nodded. “I want to keep a close watch on the pasta so we don’t end up with rubbery noodles.”

Justin quickly washed his hands, wondering who hadn’t yet arrived. He’d been having a blast cooking with Deb - enjoying himself even more than on the afternoons he’d spent trying out various recipes with his mother. Of course, the bottle of Valpolicella that Vic had unearthed might have had something to do with it. The man had laughingly declared that since it wasn’t the right wine to accompany the linguine, they’d have to polish it off before the meal began.

As the family members had begun filtering in, Justin kept strictly to himself, only ever speaking to anyone when one of them stuck a head into the kitchen to say hi. Emmett was the only person to exchange more than a feeble ‘hello’ with him, having gone as far as to step up behind Justin, wrap his arms around the blond, and whisper in a reassuring voice, “You hang in there, Baby. Don’t let the Big Bad get you down.” before taking a quick sip from Justin’s wineglass and leaving him to his own devices again.

Michael had also managed to say more than the compulsory greetings, though he hadn’t spoken to Justin at all, choosing instead to speak about him as if he wasn’t standing right there.  

“What’s that twink doing here?” he had asked with an ugly turn to his mouth.

Debbie had thrown him a distracted glance. “Oh, he’s living here, Honey,” she had replied before turning back and instructing Justin on whisking together a mascarpone and milk concoction.

Michael had gasped, causing Justin to think he was suffering a stroke because of how riled up he’d looked. However, when Debbie hadn’t responded to any of his protests - which ranged from the somewhat reasonable (“He’s just using you if he’s not paying any rent.”) to the outright ridiculous (“He’s going to turn my room into a drug den.”) - the pouting brunet had to concede defeat and stropped off to the living room. Justin hadn’t wanted to hear Michael telling everyone about the careless blond brat who was responsible for Brian getting robbed, so he had stayed in the kitchen.

Now, after drying his hands and hearing another rap of knuckles at the front door, Justin shuffled over to unlock it and let in whoever it was that was knocking.

Meanwhile, Brian was waiting on the other side of the door for someone to come and invite him in. He stared at the wooden panel in front of him and sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to the dinner as he was sure his friends would keep asking questions he didn’t really want to answer. As he remembered his day, he wished he could go back to that morning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple pictures that come with this chapter, which I was too damn lazy to even attempt to upload here. In case you are interested in seeing them, you can find them here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=2


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re going back in time to read about Brian’s day leading up to the dinner at Debbie’s, so don’t be confused girls and boys. Also, for purposes of this story, Gus is slightly older than he would be in canon - around eight months.

The delicious young blond was spread out underneath him, his body glistening with sweat and undulating seductively.

“Oh god, Justin,” Brian groaned, sliding his hands up the boy’s chest. He saw the blond’s thick thighs squeeze his waist in rhythm with his thrusts. Fuck, that lad could move.

“Come on, stud,” Justin urged him, pressing closer to Brian’s body, “fuck me.”

The brunet sped up his pace, trying to increase the much needed friction, but he must’ve prepared Justin too carefully, because the pressure wasn’t enough. In fact, the stimulation was so weak that Brian could feel his dick softening a bit. “Jesus you’re loose,” he complained in a breathy whisper.

Justin scowled at him. “That’s disgusting,” he said in Mel’s voice.

Wait, what?

Brian’s eyes shot open only for him to come face to face with Melanie, a revolted grimace on her carpet-munching face. It was then that he noticed the lumpy torture device he was lying on - that definitely wasn’t his memory foam mattress.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” he asked, his voice harsh from sleep.

The lesbian threw him a cold look, “You mean except for stinking up our living room?”

Brian huffed, offended. “I don’t stink,” he said, sniffing at his underarm, “I just smell manly. You should know what that’s like, having more testosterone than I do and all.”

Melanie folded her arms across her chest. “Dead mature that,” she said in a haughty tone, “now get your flat arse off our couch and take a shower. There is no way I’m eating breakfast with your ‘manly smell’ permeating the air.” And with that she turned on her heel and left the room.

Brian stared confusedly after her, his mind slowly catching up to his situation, when the memories hit him like a truck. He had been burgled. And he had the irresponsible blond brat to thank for it. He had never felt so violated before - everything he had worked hard to afford; every single thing he valued; every piece of what defined and reflected his persona; everything was gone. It felt like a slap to the face, like someone had just shat all over his success and laughed at him afterwards.

Not wanting to get too maudlin, Brian shook off the unpleasant thoughts and got up from the excuse for a couch, stretching his arms high above his head in a useless attempt to loosen the kinks in his back. He might as well take that shower Melanie had suggested, he thought to himself, since it might help his sore muscles. He walked up the stairs, ignoring the horrid wall decor consisting of family photos and a disgusting little plaque of a fertility goddess plastered on a floral wallpaper, and quickly reached the bathroom. He made sure to lock the door behind himself - something Justin should probably take some notes on - and undressed. His morning wood had flagged upon being subjected to Melanie’s presence but, now that he was alone again, his member was hesitantly hardening once more in anticipation of a morning jerk-off session. Too bad there was no one around to give him a hand.

Turning on the shower - taking his time getting the temperature right, so that it was just shy of scalding - he stepped in. It was an immediate relief to feel the water beating down on his body, soothing his frayed edges. Brian ran his hands over his skin, trying to wash himself as best as he could without the use of soap, as he refused to even contemplate touching the fruity shower gel that stood on a shelf next to the showerhead. It was humiliating enough to have to use a pink towel to dry off, no need to completely degrade himself.

Brian’s right hand slid down to his crotch as if of its own volition, and he ran his fingers through his well kept pubic hair. He could feel himself hardening steadily as he washed his sex and grinned in amusement. They could take away his money, they could nick all of his possessions, but they could never steal this from him.

Tightening his grip on his shaft, Brian held back a moan. A slight tremor rippled through his abdomen as he brought himself to full mast, and Brian closed his eyes at the feeling. Increasing his pace to achieve the right kind of friction, he leaned his head on the shower wall. The stud imagined slender, fine-fingered hands teasing his nipples and massaging his backside, as he swallowed back another moan and squeezed his hand a bit harder around his erection. The tip of one of those imaginary fingers ghosted along his crack, circling around when it reached his opening, before pressing inward. Maddeningly, it withdrew right away, his pucker having been barely breached. The hand then slid further down to cup his sac, nimble fingers proceeding to massage his balls in rhythm with Brian’s own jerky movements.

He automatically reached for his lube when he felt the the hand on his dick start to chafe, but instead of a plastic bottle, he encountered a wall. Brian opened his eyes in surprise, looking dazedly around himself. His first thought, that his shower must’ve shrunk to about a quarter of its size, was immediately replaced by the rude realisation that he was in the lesbians’ bathroom. Talk about a mood killer.

His shower finished very quickly after that as Brian harshly washed down the rest of his body before turning the water off and climbing out of the glass stall. He hesitantly reached for the pink towel that hung next to the shower and brought it to his face to smell it. There was no way he was using it if it didn’t smell freshly laundered; god knows what parts of female anatomy it might have touched.

Quickly drying off and putting on his yesterday clothes, Brian then followed the smell of pancakes into the kitchen. Lindsay was standing at the cooker, flipping the pancakes, while Melanie was feeding his son something yellow and mushy.

“Ba-puh,” Gus greeted him, smacking his lips together.

“Hello, Sonnyboy,” he smiled, “what have you got there?”

His son narrowed his eyes at him, as if contemplating whether to answer or not. In the end, he deemed him worthy of knowing. “Ghaba,” he informed him, mashing his hand into the gloopy mess around his mouth.

Lindsay smiled proudly. “Yes, that’s right, Gussy. You like your ghaba, right?” she babbled at him.

Brian threw her a look. “What the hell is that?”

His blonde friend raised her eyebrows at him with a smile. “Really, Brian? That is clearly a mashed banana.”

Brian shot her an astonished look. “Then why aren’t you teaching him to say that? If you keep using baby talk, he’ll never learn to speak properly,” he lectured.

Melanie immediately jumped in to defend her lover, “He’s too small to speak properly,” she told him, “at this point, he just likes to use whatever combination of letters feels right to him. Besides, our doctor said not to worry, that Gus is developing normally. Lindsay’s not doing anything wrong.”

Brian stood his ground, though, folding his arms across his chest. “Not true,” he opposed, “by the nine-month mark, he should be able to say at least something. Like ‘mama’ or ‘dada’ or whatever the fuck. The way you’re speaking to him, you’re hindering his speech development.”

Melanie scoffed. “How would you know?” she queried primly.

From Justin, he thought. “Must’ve read it somewhere,” was what he said.

There was a beat of silence, during which Lindsay turned off the cooker and then went to place three plates of pancakes in the middle of the table. “Do you think he’s behind?” she asked Brian tearfully as she sat down.

The brunet sighed, already regretting saying anything. Damn Justin and his fucking public service announcements. “I didn’t say that,” he assured her, “I’m just saying you’re not helping him. Every kid is different and Gus might not be as quick to pick up words as others, but you’ll never know if you keep babbling at him.”

Lindsay nodded her head, sniffling softly. Melanie shot him a look. “Are we seriously taking parental advice from Brian Kinney?”

The blonde shrugged. “He might be right, Mel. I mean the doctor did say that some kids already have a five- to ten-word vocabulary at the eight-month mark.”

“He also said not to worry, that Gus was developing normally,” insisted the lawyer.

Brian shook his head. “Whatever, “he said. “Is he done? I’ll go wash him up and then we’ll spend some time playing in the living room, right Sonnyboy?”

Lindsay sniffled again. “But what about the breakfast? I made you pancakes.”

He shrugged. “I’m not hungry. I’d rather play with Gus.”

Lindsay quickly agreed. “Clean him up and then you can take him to the living room. I had planned to draw with him for a bit today, so you can do that.”

Brian nodded. It didn’t matter to him what they were doing, as long as they were bonding. And drawing was fine; even Brian with his questionable talent couldn’t mess that up.

Washing his son’s sticky hands and face thoroughly, Brian then carried him over to the living room coffee table, where a set of coloured pencils already lay prepared on top of a stack of papers.

“So, Sonnyboy,” started Brian, “how about we try our hand at drawing a few squiggly lines together?”

“Bapah guh,” Gus agreed with a wave of his free hand, the other one busy tugging at his father’s collar.

Brian seated the boy in his lap and pressed a red pencil into his palm. “You ready to start?” he asked him. Gus wiggled on his lap, waving the pencil around in answer.

“Good.”

Brian then watched as Gus put the pencil to paper and made a few light lines in the middle of the white paper. “Gooh,” the boy commented on his progress.

A few swirls of the pencil later, Gus dropped the red and reached over for the blue. “Ghaba,” he said.

Brian shook his head at the babbling. “That’s blue,” he corrected with a smile.

Gus threw him an impatient look over his shoulder - as if to say, “Don’t bother the artist at work, dad.”

Brian squeezed his son’s sides in retaliation, making the tyke squeal. “That’s what you get for being cheeky, brat,” the older Kinney chided in a soft voice.

The wee lad looked at him intently, resembling a sixty-year-old college professor. “Do you understand, Gus?” Brian asked him with a teasing smile on his face.

“Bah,” replied the boy, turning back to his masterpiece.

“Good,” murmured the older man. He could swear it was almost like Gus understood exactly what he was telling him. And maybe he did; the kid was bound to be clever with the genetics he had.

The blue losing its appeal, Gus reached for a yellow pencil. He grabbed a green one along with it on accident and stared confusedly at the two pencils he was clutching. Brian waited with bated breath to see what his son would do. Would he choose one? Would he step outside the box and use both at the same time?

Gus took his time contemplating the situation, staring at the two colours. In the end he dropped them both on the table with a victorious, “Laba!” Brian was just about to say what he thought about that solution, when the nipper picked up the yellow again with his right hand and then grabbed the green with his left. He again turned his head to look at Brian inquiringly.

“That’s right, Sonnyboy,” praised Brian, “why choose one when you can have both?”

Gus - apparently pleased with Brian’s reaction - turned back to his picture and started drawing with both pencils at once. Brian held onto the paper so that it didn’t slide around and watched his little artist at work. There wasn’t actually anything recognisable worth mentioning about the drawing, but Brian still felt like they had accomplished something.

“You’re going to be a famous artist one day?” he asked his son, “Like mama? Or like Justin?”

Gus ignored him, swirling the yellow some more before finally dropping it again. He seemed pleased with his artwork, going by the smug little smile he was wearing.

“Nice use of the canvas, Picasso,” critiqued Brian, “though admittedly the composition could use a bit of work.”

Gus wiggled in his lap, turning to look at him again. He stared at him with big eyes as if Brian held the key to all of the world’s knowledge, the green pencil limp in his chubby hand.

“What? You want to learn how to paint like Justin, you have to accept the critique,” Brian explained, intrigued by the tyke’s expression.

Gus gave him an exaggerated nod. “Jushun,” he mumbled out.

Brian’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Jushun,” repeated the toddler, stabbing the green pencil precariously close to Brian’s eye.

The ad executive was speechless as he took the weapon out of Gus’ hand and laid it back on the table. He wasn’t sure if he understood the situation correctly, but it certainly seemed to him that Gus had just said his first real word. And what a word it was, thought Brian humorlessly. Justin.

Brian spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon playing with his son. They played with blocks, cars, marbles, and even some dolls. Brian made sure to talk to his boy a lot, sometimes trying to explain things so difficult that Gus’ little brain surely had no idea how to wrap itself around them. For example, he spoke to him about Egyptian pyramids and how pharaohs used to be buried, or about the physics of aeroplane flying. Both topics that he himself had been educated on not too long ago by a certain little blond twat. He figured it couldn’t hurt to talk to Gus like he would talk to an adult, the reasoning behind it being that if you challenge yourself, you learn and if you don’t, you stagnate. And Brian was all for his son improving.

Soon, it was time for the brunet to go to the police station to submit the list he had composed for that overweight detective who called himself Horrocks - or something like that. He had to rewrite it during Gus’ snack break, though, because the original list had a large ‘Justin’ written across it - courtesy of Lindsay.

He drove downtown, dropped off the inventory with an underling since the chubby detective was away from his desk, and slowly cruised toward Debbie’s house, stopping along the way to select a couple bottles of a wine that he knew would please his palate. He figured he might as well drink his dinner instead of the pasta that was bound to be saturated with fattening carbs. No way was he going to gain another three ounces, as he had the previous week.

At the Cork and Bottle, his favorite upscale wine bar with a separate storefront for off-the-rack purchases, Brian browsed not only for wine but also for tricks. He privately referred to the bar as the Cork and Screw, since he almost always found an attractive trick to satisfy his needs. He not only wanted to get off after his cock-shriveling experiences at the munchers’ that morning, but he also had some time to kill before heading to Deb’s. He would never be so pathetic as to arrive early and be subjected to more than the necessary amount of the gang’s palaver.

There, he thought, that slender, medium-height man with shaggy, dishwater-blond hair would do. He refused to consider why he was atypically choosing a blond to shag, just motioning toward the alley behind the wine bar. The blond quickly finished making his purchase and exited the shop, Brian sauntering out with his bag shortly thereafter. In the passageway, Brian freed his cock from the confines of his jeans while the trick readily knelt down in front of him. He then grabbed fistfuls of hair - annoyed that the strands weren’t as silky as those he usually handled - and guided the trick’s mouth toward his rock-hard dick. “Shit!” Brian complained vociferously moments later when the blond’s teeth grazed his dick, “don’t you know how to give a blowjob?”

The kneeling lad looked up at him with widened eyes, immediately slowing down his bobbing head to ensure his teeth remained covered.

Brian grunted in approbation and tugged more gently than before at the young man’s hair as a reward. The blond then gradually swallowed more of Brian’s dick, causing the stud’s euphoria to ratchet upward. A blissful smile covered his face as he enjoyed the wet heat. Not a complete novice after all then, thought Brian. Just as he was about to find some relief from all the stress of the past day, the little bother’s teeth rasped against his dick another time.

“Strike two, dipshit,” snarled Brian, “That was your last chance, get off,” he finished, pushing the blond’s head away.

“But,” mumbled the trick, “there are usually three-”

“Not with me, there aren’t,” Brian informed the disconsolate twit.

Taking hold of his semi-erect cock, Brian restored himself to full mast with sure, deft strokes within seconds. He shot all over the kneeling man’s face, immediately buttoning up his jeans and stalking out of the alley, his sexual frustration barely eased by the sub-par encounter.

As he climbed into his jeep, he wondered in dismay if his day could possibly get any more maddening. He was tempted to uncork one of the bottles of wine and gulp it down then and there, but he decided he’d better wait till he reached Deb’s house. The way his luck was going, he’d get pulled over by a copper, fail the sobriety test, and end up spending the night in the slammer.

Brian had to circle the area three times before he finally found a spot three blocks away from Deb’s. Why the fuck was everyone in her neighborhood? he snarled to himself. And how had Ted, of all people, snagged a spot right in front of her house? Again? He was still muttering to himself as he sauntered up the walkway. If he could have thought of an excuse Deb would accept, he’d have skipped the obligatory Sunday dinner altogether, but he knew the fiery redhead would give him hell all week if he didn’t show up. Reluctantly, he raised the knocker and rapped it against the door.

On the other side of the door, Justin was walking through the living room, cheeks flushed from cooking and drinking wine, a smudge of sauce on his chin. The blond was laughing in response to one of Emmett’s tales about Aunt Lula as he pulled open the front door. His smile of welcome quickly faded when he came face to face with a pensive Brian, who Justin hadn’t considered would, of course, be expected to attend the weekly dinner at Deb’s house. He didn’t even hear Michael joyously shout, “Brian! You’re here!” or feel the short brunet pushing him aside. Justin simply gaped at the svelte brunet, unable to utter a word.

Brian’s body instinctively inclined toward the blond’s, and he almost stuck out his tongue to lick the sauce off his chin before he caught himself and pulled back. Bloody kid looked so delectable, he fumed to himself in frustration. Unable to decide how to react or what to say to the boy who’d been haunting his dreams - night and day - he simply shouldered past Justin and bestowed a quick kiss on Michael’s lips.

The blond slowly closed the door, moving as if underwater. He wasn’t ready for this, he realised. He could hear the family behind him greeting Brian, almost cooing at him as they offered their commiseration in regard to the robbery.

Emmett didn’t usually feel much sympathy for the snarky stud, but he could imagine how he’d react if all his fabulous togs were nicked, so he reached out and squeezed one of Brian’s biceps, murmuring, “Whatever will you wear to work, Bri, and - even more importantly - to go clubbing?”

At Brian’s incredulous stare, the tall queen added, “Oops! That was rather insensitive of little ole me, wasn’t it?” With an introspective smirk, he looked Brian up and down and generously offered, “You can borrow some of my duds, if you’d like. We are just about the same size, even if I am an inch taller and several inches slimmer.”

Brian was so taken aback by Emmett’s temerity, that he simply stood there with his mouth agape for a moment. Slimmer? How had the flaming queen  come up with that egregious assumption? The incensed brunet flailed mentally before starting to unbutton his jeans. “Slimmer! We’ll see who has the smaller waist. Here, I’ll trade you.”

Amused snorts and peals of shocked laughter came from all corners of the room.

“Now, now, boys,” Deb interjected before the situation could escalate, “you’re both fine-looking men, why don’t we leave it at that?”

Brian agreed with Deb that it was best to put a halt to the madness, just in case there was the slightest chance Em might be proven correct and mock-graciously declared, “I’ll cede the contest to Queen Emmett.”

Debbie pursed her lips, stifling a chuckle, as she motioned Brian and everyone else who hadn’t yet pulled up a chair towards the set table.

Justin heard Debbie’s voice calling, “Sunshine? Come join us, Honey,” startling him out of his stupor. As apprehensive as if he were facing a firing squad, Justin nodded sluggishly and followed Debbie’s considerable behind over to the table. He sat down next to Emmett, who had pulled out a chair for him on his left. He was grateful to have ended up right opposite Ted, since he could’ve easily been across from Brian. Or even worse, Michael.

Michael, who was currently leaning forward and piercing Justin with one of the ugliest looks that had ever graced his face.

Justin tried to return the glare with a level look of his own, not wanting to seem rattled, but Michael just kept staring.

Debbie passed along a bowl of creamy pasta right underneath her son’s nose, but he barely even blinked. Just when Justin was starting to get really unnerved, the older man finally spoke, “Are you happy?”

The snide question didn’t go unnoticed by the other occupants of the table, who all turned to look at Justin.

The blond’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Are you happy that you’ve weaseled your way into my mom’s house after what you did to Brian?” Michael inquired in disgust. “You always seem to find someone to save your ass.”

If not for Emmett rubbing soothing circles into his back, Justin wasn’t sure he could have maintained his composure. He absolutely didn’t want to break down in front of everyone.

At that moment, Brian rolled his eyes, “Give the stupid kid a break, Mikey. I’m the one who was burgled, not you.”

Justin’s hackles rose at Brian’s intervention. He wasn’t sure if he was more irritated with the stud or his shorter sidekick. Brian certainly hadn’t done anything to defend him to Michael the previous day, unceremoniously kicking him out of the loft.

The blond didn’t have a chance to say anything, though, before a babble of voices rose from the table as everyone chimed in with their opinions,  Emmett hotly defending his ‘Baby’ and Michael disparaging Justin’s character. It was only when Gus, whose highchair had been placed beside Lindsay, started wailing that the commotion momentarily ground to a halt.

Justin wished that he, too, could cry like that in public without anyone judging him. He couldn’t wait till the meal finally ended, so that he could escape both the pity and condemnation.

“Well I’m team Brian,” exclaimed Michael after Gus had quieted down, folding his arms across his chest petulantly, “had Justin been reliable, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Melanie shot him a cold look. “I am team Justin then,” she retorted, “because there’s no way this isn’t Brian’s fault somehow.”

“What is this, Twilight? You’re going to start printing out fan T-shirts next,” Brian snarked, annoyed that his friends were taking sides. It wasn’t like he and Justin were getting a divorce and fighting over who got the kids on the weekends.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you weren’t in the wrong. In fact, you’d be designing your own T-shirt right about now,” pointed out Melanie.

Brian’s blood boiled. “If I wasn’t in the wrong?” he asked in an angry astonishment, “I wasn’t the one to leave the fucking door unlocked!”

“Of course you weren’t,” chimed in Michael, his voice grating at Justin’s already abused nerves, “you’d never be so irresponsible.”

Brian raised his eyebrows at Melanie as if to say, “See? I’m right.”

“Oh, come off it, Michael,” Emmett interjected, ignoring the noodles dangling from the short brunet’s mouth, “it could have been any one of hundreds of tricks who burgled the loft.” Turning toward Brian, he surmised, “It can’t have been too hard for your ‘guests’ to memorize the alarm code while watching you drunkenly punch it in. Plus, you probably have spare keys in a kitchen drawer - just ready to be nicked.”

Brian winced as Michael slurped the noodles into his gob and growled, “What the fuck are you babbling about, Honeycutt?” He was irritated all over again as he remembered the parade of visitors who had recently passed through his loft. He wasn’t about to even consider, let alone admit, that Emmett might have a valid argument.

Ted, who was sitting between Mel on one side and Michael on the other, broke the tension by declaring, “I am Switzerland,” which made almost everyone chuckle.

Michael threw him a confused look but didn’t ask what the accountant meant since he didn’t want to appear ignorant.

Vic, in an effort to make peace and redirect everyone’s attention, took another bite of pasta, hummed appreciatively, and commented, “This mascarpone-spinach sauce is delicious, Sis.”

“Thank you,” she preened, “Sunshine was a big help.” Then, ladling another serving of pasta onto Vic’s plate, she urged her brother, “Here, have some more,” before passing the bowl down the table. “Help yourselves, everyone!” she exclaimed. “You’re all way too skinny.”

Justin was grateful that everyone had stopped staring at him and that his culpability for the burglary was no longer under discussion. His appetite somewhat restored, he grinned at Deb as he took another helping.

“That’s right, Sunshine,” the redhead encouraged, “show everyone how to appreciate good cooking.” as she looked fondly at her new housemate - who was still wearing the shirt he’d had on that morning - she was reminded that his wardrobe was sadly lacking.

“Oh, Honey,” she turned toward her son, “you know those T-shirts you left upstairs in your old room?”

“Yeth, whadda bout ’em,” Michael mumbled through a mouthful of pasta.

Emmett, who was sitting directly across the table from Michael, looked away, revolted by the half-chewed food, but continued stuffing his own mouth. Justin, who hadn’t had as many years to accustom himself to the brunet’s eating habits as the others at the table, turned a bit green - suddenly regretting that additional helping of pasta.

“Dammit, Michael, are you ever going to learn to masticate without putting all of us off our food?” a disgusted Mel questioned.

Brian found himself in a rare moment of agreement with the bulldyke lawyer, although he didn’t comment.

“Mashticate?” Michael sputtered, mouth opened wide after shoveling in another forkful. Frowning, he chastised, “How rude. It’s not polite to talk about such things at the dinner table.”

Most everyone had to hastily muffle their amusement at that absurd response. Deb’s shrug expressed a mixture of exasperation and affection at Michael’s ignorance and his atrocious table manners - which she had long ago given up on correcting. “Anyroad,” she exclaimed in an effort to return to the topic of her son’s tees, “Sunshine is in dire need of some additional clothing, so you don’t mind if he wears some of your hand-me-downs, do you?”

Ted almost choked on his last bite of pasta from amusement, hard put to say whether Michael or Justin looked more appalled at that solution to Sunshine’s apparel crisis.

“Maaaa!” Michael complained, “Those are my Green Arrow and Green Lantern tees. They’re collector’s items!” he protested further, gesticulating wildly and nearly backhanding Mel across the face. “The least you could have done was check with me before asking the brat to move in and offering him my clothes.”

“I did try to call you - repeatedly - but you didn’t pick up,” Deb replied a bit sharply.

“Oh, yeah,” the little brunet mumbled, “I was in the middle of a really important transaction.”

Emmett snickered, “Is that what you call bidding on eBay?”

“Were you spying on me?” Michael squawked, angry that his roommate had spilled the beans.

“Spying?” Emmett scoffed. “You hogged the computer all night and all morning. I missed my weekly chat session with usemyhole27 on ‘Let It All Hang Out’.”

Michael brushed off his friend’s irritation. “Whatever, Em, I won the coolest Avengers’ dildo set. I can’t wait to try-” he paused, blushing, “Uh, you know.”

Emmett let out an amused puff of breath. That was just like Michael, easily enthused, inconsiderate, and with an uncontrollable tendency to stick his foot in his mouth.

Ted’s thoughts went in a different direction, “So that’s why I heard the news about the burglary from Mel rather than from you,” he murmured, “I should’ve known that you wouldn’t miss the opportunity for anything less than a comic collectible.”

Melanie snorted, certain Ted was spot-on with his assessment, while Vic quickly turned his gust of laughter into a pretend coughing bout. The others just nodded and smirked while Michael flushed even a darker red, embarrassed at being caught out.

Deb silently agreed with Ted. She knew Michael didn’t care much for Justin, convinced the blond had stolen Brian from him, and she was sure that had he not been otherwise occupied, he would have rushed over to her house to gloat about the teen’s misfortune the second he found out. Figuring she could use that to her advantage, since her son wouldn’t want to look even more petty in front of his friends, she wheedled, “But you’re glad to share your clothes with Sunshine, right, Sweetie? Those tees really haven’t fit you since you were fourteen.”

“Deb, no, I’m good,” Justin speedily interjected. At Deb’s doubtful look, he assured her, “I bought some stuff while I was out this afternoon.”

Michael glared at Justin. He was made up that the teenager wouldn’t be wearing his precious shirts, but was still worried that he’d damage his Captain Astro decor - his sheets, bedspread, curtains, wallpaper . . . As soon as he had the chance, he’d have to lay down the law to the blond trespasser.

Later that evening, everyone lounged around the living room, chatting and enjoying post-dinner libations while they digested their meal. Debbie, already a little trolleyed after necking one of the wine bottles almost by herself, outstretched her arms towards Lindsay and a wiggling Gus. “Come here, baby boy, give your gram a smooch,” she coaxed.

Lindsay smiled at her, before tickling her son on the side. “What do you say, Gussy? Will you give grandma Debbie a kiss?”

The little tyke babbled something along the lines of, ‘badabam gaca babuh’ and grinned a toothless smile at his blonde mother. Lindsay picked him up off her lap with a fond look on her face and plopped him down in Debbie’s arms.

“Well, hello there, cutie,” the redhead said with a strong, lisping inflection, “give us a kiss.”

Brian suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at his surrogate mother’s behaviour, finishing off his glass of white. No wonder Michael had turned out the way he had, not even knowing what ‘mastication’ was. His vocabulary probably still consisted of words like ‘munch’ and ‘nosh’ and ‘yum yum’.

Emmett, who had settled down on the floor near Debbie’s armchair, reached upward and chucked Gus under the chin, cooing, “Aren’t you the sweetest . . .”

“What’s with all the baby talk?” Michael complained, bored with talking about the little tyke. He wanted to return the conversation to the robbery, so that he could get in some more digs at the damned blond without appearing overly spiteful.   

Emmett huffed in indignation. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Michael, I barely said a word.”

Brian, on the other hand, was startled by his best friend’s astute observation, especially after the discussion he’d had with Linds and Mel that morning. He wouldn’t have expected Michael to be so knowledgeable about babies or so concerned for Gus’ welfare. However, Justin, who’d immediately discerned Michael’s true intentions, barely stifled a laugh at how badly the man’s plans misfired when Lindsay expostulated, “Oh, we were actually just debating whether baby talk hinders an infant’s development this morning.” Concerned, she then turned to Debbie, “What do you think, Deb?”

“Pshaw,” Debbie immediately dismissed that notion, “it’s natural to indulge in a little baby talk; you and Mel are just letting Gus know that you love him.” She glanced proudly toward her son and declared, “It didn’t do Michael any harm.”

Lindsay flashed a hesitant, slightly guilty smile toward Brian at hearing that, while Melanie’s eyes almost bugged out of her head. If Debbie was trying to put their minds at ease, she failed. Melanie immediately made her own conclusions about any correlation between baby talk during a child’s infancy and its lasting effects in adulthood. Shit, she reflected, if she and Linds ever had another child, Michael was definitely out of the running as a potential father. He was clearly a case of double jeopardy since he’d apparently been smothered in baby talk as a child, and it was probably not only encoded in his genes to do the same to any child of his own, it had also left some lasting aftereffects.

Although no one else ruminated about Michael as a possible father, their thoughts likely mirrored those of the lesbians. Brian wryly chuckled at himself for briefly thinking that Michael was conversant with current child-rearing practices. He now suspected that Michael had simply wanted to change the topic but, fortunately, had not been successful. He didn’t  want his pleasant buzz from the wine to be eroded by further wrangling about the burglary.

Justin, who could almost see the wheels turning in everyone’s brains, decided it was time to rescue Gus from excessive coddling and gushing. He moved over to Deb and suggested, “Why don’t you let me take him for now, so you can show Em your fancy new espresso machine and brew some coffee for anyone who wants to sober up before driving home?”

Emmett clapped his hands, exclaiming, “Oh, please show me! Did you get the model we drooled over at Lechters last month?”

The queen’s excitement was, however, overshadowed by Gus crowing, “Jushun!” as he held out his arms toward the smiling blond, who promptly scooped him up.

“What!” Lindsay cried out, her head swiveling toward Gus, who was now gurgling away happily in Justin’s arms. “Did he just say, ‘Justin’?”

“Tha . . . that’s his first word,” the normally eloquent Melanie stammered, a stunned look on her face.

Brian refrained from telling them it was the third time that day that Gus had said ‘Jushun’. He was annoyed to discover that he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sunshine as he walked around the living room, holding an animated conversation with Brian’s son, seemingly not aware of the gang’s reaction.

Justin was beaming from ear to ear. He couldn’t believe his name was Gus’ first word. All the lousy crap from the last couple of days, which had been weighing him down, vanished. At that moment, nothing could have made him happier than the little guy calling him ‘Jushun’.

As he watched the blond with his son, Brian’s conflicting feelings almost overwhelmed him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Deb opening her house to Justin. He supposed he was glad the boy had a place to stay, but Brian would have preferred not to see him so soon. He was still feeling on edge about the burglary, and the hullaballoo the family had raised had only exacerbated his irritation. Rising from his chair abruptly, he turned to Michael and said, “I’m off to Woody’s. You coming?”

His friend scrambled to stand up and join Brian, the rest of the visitors taking that as their cue to also depart.

“Aren’t you even going to say goodbye?” Deb yelled at the two men. “How about thanking me for the meal?”

Michael was jiggling in place, impatient to be off, but he chuckled ruefully and leaned over to give his mother a kiss.

By that point, everyone else was in the entryway, too, shrugging on their coats, getting Gus settled in his stroller, and making their farewells. Brian, who’d waited for Michael, could no longer make an immediate escape, now that the door was blocked by other guests getting ready to depart.

“We’ll meet you at Woody’s,” Ted stated, making Brian roll his eyes. Just what he needed, more of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Michael, he knew, would commiserate with him and take everything he said as gospel. Ted, on the other hand, was likely to skewer him with that dry, barbed wit, just to see how he’d respond. Emmett would undoubtedly also chime in but would be even worse than Ted since he was clearly on team Justin.

The man in question chose that moment to plant a lingering kiss on Justin’s lips, winking at his favorite blond and inviting, “Baby, let’s go to Babylon later this week. We’ll dance up a storm and hook up with some hot tricks.”

Brian mocked scathingly, “How nice to be able to afford a night out. Must be because none of his shit was stolen.” He conveniently ignored the fact that Justin had no money.

Noticing that Deb appeared ready to jump in and defend him - most likely by revealing his plan to repay Brian - Justin shook his head at her in a silent signal not to say anything. The redhead didn’t look happy but complied with Justin’s wordless request.

Determined not to let Brian see how much his remark had hurt, Justin pasted on a grin, “Thanks, Em, that sounds like fun. How about Friday since that’s not a school night?”

Em squealed, kissed Justin again - quite enthusiastically if you asked Brian - and exclaimed, “It’s a date!”

Brian - beyond pissed off at the situation, since he couldn’t even justify peeling Honeycutt’s hands off Justin - just shouldered his way through his friends and out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve updated the story banner, thanks to samcdee - check it out!

It was almost completely dark, only a sliver of moonlight coming through the heavy curtains at the end of the hallway, as a sleepy Justin quietly tiptoed towards the bathroom. He was trying to avoid stepping on the squeaky floorboards that had the unfortunate ability to wake up the whole house, carefully making his way alongside the wallpapered wall. He started violently at a burst of noise against the window behind him, yelping out as his heart almost jumped out of his chest. His breathing was ragged as he turned around, watching the offending window suspiciously. The noise didn’t come again, so Justin calmed down slowly, figuring he had just imagined it.

He turned back around and finally managed to reach his intended destination, entering the loo and locking the door behind himself. He felt around for the light switch, flipping it on and then squinting his way towards the toilet to relieve himself. Before he could even pull down his trousers though, he heard the noise again - this time crashing against the door behind him.

His heart was beating in his throat as his breathing quickened again. What the hell was happening? He thought he could hear a soft voice saying something from behind the door, but he couldn’t make out the words. Suddenly, the doorknob turned and Justin stopped breathing at the click of the lock.

Just as he expected the door to open, a soft knock came instead. A crazed whisper accompanied the action, “Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in.”

What the fuck?

The voice continued, teasing, “Not by the hair on your chinny chin chin? Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.”

A hard slam against the door caused Justin’s heart to palpitate as his fear-struck brain finally realised what was happening. He was locked in a fucking horror film bathroom with a psychopathic axe-murderer trying to blast his way through the door.

Another loud crash came, the feeble door splintering, and Justin couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible that all the noise didn’t wake up Debbie and Vic, both of whom were sleeping on the same floor.

Another crash and the blond realised he was most likely going to die. An axe to the head, how wonderful. He felt sorry for Debbie, who would most likely be the one to find him with a split head, and for his mother, who had told him time and time again that the ‘gay lifestyle’ he had chosen wasn’t healthy. His father would probably stand smugly over his grave, repeating ‘I told you so’ in the same suffering tone he had used that time a seven-year-old Justin had insisted on riding his new bike without the training wheels and had immediately fallen down and scraped his knee. And then there was Brian, who probably wouldn’t even care that he was dead. Justin could almost see the moment Debbie or someone else broke the news to the stud, saying, “Justin’s popped his clogs.” Brian would just raise his eyebrow and ask, “Who?”

Or maybe not. It was possible he would remember the twink that had caused his flat to be burgled and hadn’t even attempted to pay him back.

Another crash against the door caused a large hole to appear in the wood, and Justin knew what was coming next. A young Jack Nicholson stuck his shaggy head through the opening, a crazed look in his eyes, and opened his mouth to deliver his signature line.

“Justin? Justin, Honey, wake up.”

The blond’s brow furrowed. He was pretty sure that wasn’t how it went in the film.

“Sunshine, wake up,” someone was whispering next to his ear, finally penetrating his nightmarish haze.

Justin opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep, coming face to face with a man standing over his bed. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and scrambled up to press against the headboard of his bed. It was only then that he realised his overactive imagination was playing tricks on him, and what he had thought to be the bringer of his demise was in fact just a cardboard cutout of a man in a superhero suit. He let himself calm down a little bit, feeling someone squeezing his hand caringly, and his eyes finally focused on the red-headed matron sitting by his side.

“Debbie,” Justin sighed, relieved.

“Sunshine,” she smiled at him, worry clear in her eyes, “what’s wrong? You look terrified.”

The teenager shook his head, sweat-matted hair flying wildly around his face. “I’m fine, just a bit of a bad dream.”

The waitress raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, it sounded really horrible, Honey.”

Justin shrugged, not meeting the woman’s sincere gaze. “Nightmares often do look worse on the outside,” he lied, banking on the fact that Debbie wouldn’t actually call him on his bullshit.

He was in luck because the redhead just gave him a disbelieving look but didn’t comment further. She just sat there by his side and held his hand in a comfortable silence until he was back to breathing slowly and regularly and his eyelids were heavy with sleep again. The whole time Justin was thinking how weird of an experience it must be for the gobby woman to sit still and quiet for such a long period of time.

In the end, he didn’t remember when or how exactly he actually fell into a restless sleep again.

 

Come morning, after he’d finished his normal routine, the blond sat in Michael’s room, watching out the window for his friend. When Daphne turned onto Debbie’s street fifteen minutes later to pick him up, he immediately noticed her car. He climbed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step, and trudged out of the house, shutting the door quietly behind himself as not to wake up a still sleeping Vic. He then checked three times to be sure he had locked up after himself. Debbie had already left for the diner earlier that morning, and Justin wanted to be sure no one could just walk into the house uninvited and abscond with all their valuables. He really didn’t want to earn a reputation as an irresponsible tenant and get kicked out of his home for the third time in his short life.

“Thanks, Daph,” a bleary-eyed Justin rasped out as staggered over to her car and climbed in, “I know it’s really out of your way to swing by and pick me up. Not sure I could have dealt with the bus this morning and still get to class on time.”

“What’s wrong?” Daphne asked in concern, “You’re too young to have bags under your eyes.”

The blond buried his face in his hands. “It’s so fucking embarrassing. I had the most horrid nightmare about The Shining’s Johnny coming after me, and I woke the house up with my screaming.”

Daphne reached over to pat him on the knee, carefully pulling away from the curb, before saying, “That’s not so bad, Jus. Perfectly natural, considering what you’ve gone through since the burglary. Debbie wasn’t upset with you, was she?”

“No, she was great,” Justin responded, “but the whole thing made me feel like such a silly little faggot.” He added bitterly, “Like a five-year-old who couldn’t stop crying till his mommy made his boo-boo better by giving it a kiss.”

“Jus,” the young woman chided sympathetically, “cut yourself a break. A robbery isn’t the same as a scraped knee. It’s a huge invasion of privacy; of course you’d be upset.”

“Yeah, I know,” the blond acknowledged as he finally lifted his head from his hands and leaned back in the seat. “It just didn’t help that, when she woke me up, I thought I saw Jack Nicholson looming behind her. I let out a shriek worthy of a teenaged girl.”

“Hey!” Daphne protested, “I am a teenaged girl.”

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean, like ...  you,” Justin scrambled to erase what he’d said. “I meant, you know, like a fourteen-year-old or something. I thought for sure Deb was gonna clasp me to her bosom, say ‘there, there’, and tell me to cry it all out.”

Both teens chuckled over Debbie’s excessive mother-henning before Justin admitted ruefully, “I felt like a right prat when I realized what I’d taken to be an axe-murderer was actually a giant placard of Captain Astro.”

“Who?” Daphne asked in bafflement.

“One of Michael’s comic book heroes,” Justin stated dismissively.

“A giant placard of-” Daphne stopped herself, closing her mouth sharply. She decided not to comment any further, since she had nothing nice to say.

When the two teens finally arrived at St. James a bit later, Daphne parked her car in the last available spot at the far end of the student lot. The teens dashed to their lockers, where Justin was relieved to discover a white dress shirt and one of his school ties, both wadded up at the bottom of the locker. The shirt would have to be laundered before he could wear it, but at least he had a spare now. The microfiber fabric of the tie was barely wrinkled, so he quickly swapped it out for the cheap polyester imitation he’d purchased the previous day. He sighed when he discovered that the only book in his locker was Remarque’s ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’, which they’d already read in English Lit.

“Here, Jus,” Daphne nudged Justin and handed him a notebook, “I had an extra and thought you might want it.”

Justin let out a gusty sigh as he closed his locker. “Thanks, Daph. I forgot all about basic school supplies when I went shopping yesterday.” Sheepishly, he asked, “Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

As the two friends trotted toward their classroom, a grinning Daphne handed her friend a plastic pen and pencil pouch with purple glitter glue splashed across it. “That’s my spare. Keep it as long as you need.”

With a grimace Justin opened his mouth to ask if that was really all she had to offer, but Daphne was already holding up her own pouch which was covered with smiley faces and sunflowers. “We can swap if you want... Sunshine,” she giggled.

Justin implored, “Couldn’t you at least have one with Patrick Swayze on it? Some eye candy?”

“Swayze?” Daphne protested in confusion. “Wasn’t he in that really old film about dancing?”

Justin almost whacked himself on the forehead with the offending pencil case at the ‘old’ reference. If Brian hadn’t invited Michael over to watch that movie several nights ago, he would have mentioned a more current film star. Remembering the way Brian had chanted the lines along with Swayze had brought that actor to the forefront of his brain. Fuck! Now he was thinking about Brian and his burgled loft again.

Before Justin could come up with a suitable retort, Mrs. Rose, who taught both English and German and doubled as the school librarian, called out, “A moment please, Mr. Taylor.”

Justin waved Daphne onward to their calculus class as he halted in the middle of the hallway. “Yes, Frau Rose?” Justin responded politely, using the title that he knew his former tenth-grade English teacher preferred. Justin had his doubts that she’d ever been married but figured it was none of his business. Frau Rose was the one teacher who had remained cordial after he’d been outed as gay. Most of the other faculty were still civil, if mildly disapproving.

“Has something happened to your uniform?” she asked sternly, although the twinkle in her eyes indicated she wasn’t all that upset. “Your ensemble isn’t entirely convincing.”

Justin opted for honesty, speaking quietly so that other students rushing to class wouldn’t overhear him. The blond explained the flat where he’d been staying had been burgled and that he wouldn’t have access to his uniform until the police released the apartment to the owner. He avoided going into detail and didn’t reveal what had happened subsequent to the robbery. Unfortunately, neither Justin nor Frau Rose noticed Chris Hobbs lurking behind the door of a nearby classroom that wasn’t in use during the first period on Mondays.

“I won’t write you up for the infraction,” Frau Rose replied before warning, “but others may not be so lenient. You’d best stay out of sight as much as possible.”

Justin nodded solemnly since he preferred not to consider how some of the teachers would respond if they caught him out of the proper uniform.

“It appears that you don’t even have a backpack,” Frau Rose continued sympathetically as she tapped her index finger against her cheek. “Stop by the library later today. I’m pretty sure I have something you could use in the meantime. Go on now,” she shooed him away, “I know you don’t want to be late for your first lesson.”

“Thanks, Frau Rose!” Justin beamed at the librarian before dashing toward class, skidding on the slick floor, and then sliding into his seat next to Daphne.

Mr. Dixon had already started taking roll but, other than an annoyed look as Justin burst into the classroom, didn’t acknowledge the blond. When he called out ‘Mr. Taylor’, Chris Hobbs piped up, “Here and queer!”

Justin swiveled around in his seat to castigate Chris but was unable to utter a word before the jock maliciously criticized, “He’s not wearing his uniform either.”

The math teacher scowled and ordered, “Indeed? Stand up, Mr. Taylor.”

Fucking jock thought he was the cock of the walk, Justin muttered to himself as he complied.

Dixon looked Justin up and down carefully before sneering, “Is that your idea of proper attire for St. James, Mr. Taylor?”

Certain that explaining himself to his homophobic teacher would only get him in more trouble, Justin simply replied, “No, Mr. Dixon.”

The ferret-faced math instructor tore a pink slip from a small notebook and commanded, “That’s a week’s detention for you, Taylor.”

Justin opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it again since he didn’t want to be stuck in detention even longer for mouthing off.

“That starts today, Taylor,” the teacher declared as the blond stepped forward to accept the offensive piece of paper and then resumed his seat. “Don’t try and skip out. I’ll let Mr. Bauer know to expect you.”

Clenching his teeth to prevent himself from arguing, Justin realized he’d never make it to the diner on time for his shift. He’d have to borrow Daph’s mobile and call Debbie to let her know that he’d have to start an hour later than planned for the entire week. It irritated him to make such a poor impression when Deb had been nothing but kind to him.

When class ended, Justin asked, “Can I use your phone, Daph? I need to let Deb know about the change in my schedule for the week.”

“Sure. Be quick though, okay? I have to hoof it across the school grounds to my next class.” Daphne responded as she dug out her mobile.

Justin tugged at his hair in frustration when he realized he didn’t know the number for the diner. Dialing information, he asked them to patch him through to the Liberty Diner. Deb was busy serving the late workday breakfast crowd, but he left a brief message with Kiki so that the waitress would know he needed to start his shift later. He would figure out how much to tell Debbie on the way to the diner that afternoon.

The young man tossed the phone to Daphne with a shouted ‘Thanks’, and they hurried in opposite directions - Justin to his Latin class and Daphne to her psychology lesson. Justin enjoyed himself for the next hour as he immersed himself in his foreign language elective. He’d wanted to learn the language of the Italian masters, but St. James didn’t offer Italian - just the standard French, Spanish, and German in addition to the less popular Latin, mainly for students interested in medicine and law. Justin was glad he’d listened to his advisor about Latin providing an excellent foundation for other European languages, particularly Italian. He’d almost written it off as a dead language, as most of the other students at the private Catholic school had done. He was now in his fourth year, engaging in complex dialog with the three classmates who’d stuck it out as long as he had.

Justin made it through the rest of his morning without anyone else critiquing his makeshift uniform. Hobbs didn’t utter a word when he rejoined Daphne and Justin for the fourth class period of the morning. That didn’t surprise Justin since Ms. Gallagher gave short shrift to students who interrupted her government class for any reason. She believed all students should be well versed in modern politics and able to provide succinct, rational arguments to back up their opinions. Hobbs didn’t exactly excel at that.

 

Meanwhile, Brian wasn’t having a much better morning. He had been woken up at half five by Melanie, who had dropped a stinking Gus down on his chest and told him to take care of the little present. Brian had tried getting out of it at first, loudly reminding the butch lawyer that he was a mere sperm donor and not their nanny, but he had no success. Melanie just went about her morning routine, completely ignoring his mithering, and Brian had to capitulate in the end and change the little tyke. It had nothing to do with the gummy smile that lit up his son’s whole chubby, little face when he picked him up. Not at all.

Living with the lesbians was a pain. Not that he had spent much time actually cohabitating with them in the past two days - with the exception of the previous morning he had spent playing with Gus, he’d barely come home to sleep. The time that he did spend in Muncherville, though, was filled with Lindsay blathering on about how fulfilling it was to be a stay-at-home mum, Melanie complaining about her sexist coworkers, and Gus spitting up all around the place - seemingly aiming specifically for Brian’s designer shirt. A designer shirt that he couldn’t afford to get dirty, as after the burglary, he didn’t have anything other than the Zegna on his back. He’d have to go shopping soon.

After that rough wake-up call, a sleep-deprived Brian had refused Lindsay’s sleepy offer of breakfast and instead headed to the diner. He had arrived at six o’clock on the dot, the opening time, and had received a raised eyebrow from Debbie for his troubles. She had kept throwing him weird looks the entire time he had been working on polishing off his whole wheat toast, several times going as far as to almost snarl at him when he’d asked for a coffee refill. It was safe to say, he had been glad to leave the diner in the end and head to work.

Then at Ryder’s, he had been nearly assaulted by his personal assistant the second he’d entered his office. The blonde woman had grilled him on details about the burglary - her interrogation more thorough than the interview with the bulky policeman.

“So you’re saying it must’ve been a professional job?” Cynthia had asked with a contemplative twitch of her eyebrow.

“Yeah, they cleared the whole place out in just a few hours,” Brian had groused.

The woman had nodded, her expression unsure. “Then how is it Justin’s fault?”

Brian had thought he had entered a different dimension. “Didn’t you hear me say the brat forgot to set the alarm? How does that leave you with any doubt about his fucking role in this?”

His secretary had sneered at him sarcastically, “And I suppose he also went and tipped off a group of professional flat burglars as to when and where they should act.” She had paused, her facial features forming an exasperated expression. “Don’t you see how ridiculous that is? The guys clearly cased you out first and then waited till the loft was empty, so they could make their move - where exactly does Justin come into it?”

At which point, Brian had thrown her out of his office, not wanting to listen to reason. And reason it was, he had to admit. Cynthia was probably the first person believing in Justin’s innocence that had actually provided valid arguments to support her claims. Not that he was convinced, of course; he was still sure that had the little dipstick not left his alarm unarmed, the burglars wouldn’t have managed to get in.

Now, after letting him stew for two hours, the devil herself entered his office again, carrying a thick pile of papers underneath her arm. Brian sighed at the sight. “Tell me that’s not the O’Connor contract.”

Cynthia dutifully complied, “This is not the O’Connor contract.”

Brian snorted. “It _is_ the O’Connor contract, isn’t it?” Upon Cynthia’s nod, he continued, “Our legal department should take some sort of efficiency course if that pile is what came out of my fifteen minutes with Miss O’Connor the other day. The woman is a wimp; she didn’t even have any special stipulations to add to the contract.”

His blonde assistant chuckled, slapping the paper pile on his desk. “And yet, here are a full sixteen pages. Have fun reading, boss.”

Brian shot her a glare, seriously considering signing the contract without reading it for the first time in his life. It wasn’t like he actually had to - that’s what their lawyers were for - but he was in the habit of reading everything he ever put his signature on, no matter how many legal beagles had gone over it before him.

The brunet looked up from the contract to see Cynthia had yet to leave his office. She was standing in front of his desk, arms crossed over her chest and a determined expression on her face.

"Was there something else?" he half-growled, throwing his hands up in a 'what now' gesture.

“You speak to Justin yet?” she replied with a question of her own.

Brian grew even more frustrated. “Not that again. I’ve told you what the score was with that twink. I refuse to discuss it further.”

Cynthia shot him an annoyed glare. “I don’t understand why you’re being so hard on him. The burglary wasn’t his fault - in fact, he must be feeling violated too. You should’ve heard how distraught he was on the phone.”

Brian stood up from his chair, aghast. “Violated? He’s feeling violated? They didn’t even steal anything of his, Cynthia!”

The blonde stood her ground. “That doesn’t matter; someone still breached his privacy. They entered his home, touched his things-”

“ _My_ home!” Brian interrupted in a harsh tone, “It was _my_ home that was broken into and _my_ things that were stolen.” He was working himself up into a right fit of rage. He was the one who was supposed to feel violated - what with over seventy percent of his possessions gone - and yet everyone was trying to make him feel guilty about blowing out on Justin? Well, fuck that. He had a right to be angry at the person who’d caused the whole predicament.

“Brian,” Cynthia chided in a calm tone, “be reasonable.”

The brunet gritted his teeth. “I am being reasonable, Cynthia,” he growled, “and I’d thank you not to question me. Now go back to your desk; I’m sure you’ve got work to do.”

The blonde seemed a little taken aback, not used to Brian treating her like a stupid secretary that didn’t know her place. “Yes, sir,” she retorted, shoulders squared and tension around her eyes, before she turned on her heel and strode out of Brian’s office.

“Fuck,” the ad executive breathed out, frustrated beyond belief. He was furious that his personal assistant dared to challenge him, angry that he was missing some of his most prized possessions, pissed at the fact that he hadn’t fucked anyone worthwhile in days, and irritated that he had to go through a sixteen-page-long contract.

Brian stared at the offending pile, trying to burn a hole in it with just his gaze. “Fuck,” he repeated when he wasn’t successful at incinerating the paper. “Fuck,” he swore again for good measure, breathing heavily.

He quickly realised that he needed to calm down or he wouldn’t be able to work productively. Or at all. And ever since he’d been fourteen years old, a surefire way for him to calm down was to orgasm. Brian looked around his office, unsurprisingly discovering there were no tricks around just waiting to be fucked. His hand it was then.

The brunet walked over to his office door, making sure it was locked, and closed the blinds. He then sprawled over the two-person leather couch in the corner of his office and opened his trousers. He spat in his palm in substitution of lube and proceeded to slowly jerk himself off. He sighed as he felt his cock slowly swell up and harden.

“Yeah,” he grunted quietly, stroking himself up and down with a tight fist. His hips involuntarily jerked up when he added a twist of his wrist at the top of his shaft. A soft moan escaped his lips, and Brian sank deeper into the couch cushions as he let himself get lost in the sensations.

He imagined he was somewhere else, preferably somewhere with hot hunky tricks and no bloody paperwork. Somewhere he could get undressed and a plethora of men would fall over themselves just for the chance to give him a handjob. He could almost feel someone else’s hand replacing his own, squeezing his hardness rhythmically. The soft hand ran a finger up the underside of his cock, teasing the pulsating vein there, before circling the head and putting soft pressure on his slit. Brian moaned at the feeling of precome leaking out, easing the slide of his palm. He tried to massage that sensitive spot on the underside of the head, just like Justin always did to him, but whined in frustration when the angle was awkward and he couldn’t achieve the same sensation. How the flaming heck did the twink do it? Shouldn’t he know his own dick better than Justin?

Brian rolled his hips again, squeezing his dick more tightly in his fist and quickening his pace. He let out a breathy curse, imagining it was Justin’s capable hand that was pleasuring him and trying to massage the spot again. It worked out better this time, though it still wasn’t perfect, and Brian gasped. He was getting close.

Why the fuck couldn’t he stop fantasizing about Justin? Brian wondered, as he’d wanted nothing to with the twat since the burglary. Frustrated at having Justin dominate his thinking, the brunet consciously dismissed him from his mind, firmly gripping the base of his erection with his other hand and increasing his pace again. The squelching sound of his hands sliding over sensitive skin reached his ears, and Brian’s breath caught in his throat as he felt himself nearing the edge. Just a few more strokes and he’d be there. A few short jerks of his hand was all it would take.

Just as he was about to finally come and release all that tension, there was an insistent knocking at the door. “Brian?” came Cynthia’s voice, “your ten o’clock is here.”

“Fucking shit,” Brian growled as he came in a completely unsatisfactory orgasm - Cynthia’s voice coming right from behind his door ruining it for him. He watched the thick white spurts of come splatter across his hand and stain the soft material of his trousers as he mentally ran through his notes for the upcoming meeting. He felt himself tensing up again in preparation. So much for jerking off.  

 

At the same time at St. James, Justin winced as his side came into contact with the door jamb as the students were leaving their American government class. Hobbs, who had shoved him against it, smirked at the blond as he stalked off. It pissed Justin off, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t retaliate either physically or verbally. He just wanted to make it through the school day so he could head to the diner. His energy was already flagging, and he had two more classes - followed by fucking detention - after lunch.

When Daphne opened her gob - probably to yell some choice words after Chris - Justin shook his head at her, shrugging in resignation. “Don’t, Daphne,” he pled, “it won’t help.”

Daphne begrudgingly shut her mouth before suggesting, “Let’s grab something to eat. I bet you’ll feel better after you fill up that bottomless pit of yours.”

Justin dredged up a tepid smile for his friend before admitting, “I don’t know if I could keep anything down, Daph.”

“You have to eat,” Daphne urged, taking Justin by the arms and shaking him gently.

“Grab something for me and meet me at the bleachers in half an hour?” Justin asked, making an effort not to let his shoulders sag. “I need to stop by the library and see which of my textbooks I can check out.”

“You’d better be there,” Daphne threatened playfully, “or I’ll feed your lunch to the squirrels.”

Justin chuckled wryly, enjoying a moment of humor in what had been a fairly bleak day. “Would that be squirrel happen to be named Glenn Reeves?” he teased.

A blushing Daphne ordered “Scram!” and pushed Justin in the direction of the school library.

Frau Rose smiled up at Justin when he stopped in front of her desk a few minutes later. Pulling out a black tote bag with the motto ‘Omnia mea mecum porto’ emblazoned on the front in white lettering, she queried, “Will this do until your backpack has been returned?”

A broad smile crossed Justin’s face as he viewed the bag. “Maybe I should permanently replace my backpack,” he mused aloud as he took the tote bag from Frau Rose, “this one is mint.”

“You understand the quote then,” the woman commented, a pleased smile on her face.

Justin gave her one of his signature sunshine grins. “I take Latin,” he explained, “though I think that almost anyone of a moderate literacy would know what the motto means.”

Barking out a laugh with her eyes sparkling devilishly, Frau Rose asserted, “You’d be surprised, Mr. Taylor. Perhaps you should keep track of how many students ask you about it.”

“And faculty?” Justin queried with a smirk.

“ _Abominatio_!” the librarian declared in dismay while shaking her finger at Justin. “If, however, any teachers do ask for a translation, you’d best tell me so I can lend them some books and ensure they achieve at least a moderate literacy,” she finished with a conspiratorial wink.

After another shared chuckle, Justin pulled out a list of his textbooks. “Could I borrow these if you have them in stock? I’ll return them as soon as my backpack has been released,” he stated earnestly.

Frau Rose took the list and browsed the shelves marked ‘faculty only’ where teachers stored extra copies of required texts for their classes, usually with the stipulation that the books could only be used in the library. Quickly pulling seven books off the shelves, including two workbooks, she scanned Justin’s student ID and then the bar codes in the books. “I’m afraid Mr. Dixon only supplied one copy of your calculus text,” the librarian mentioned regretfully, “and we’re required to keep at least one of every textbook assigned for the academic year in the library at all times.”

“That’s okay,” Justin responded, pleased to be able to check out books for so many of his classes, “Daph’s going to lend me hers, which will tide me over till midterm exams.” After looping the handles of the tote bag over his shoulder, he added, “If you need any of these, just let me know, and I’ll bring them back right away.”

“I’ll do that, Justin,” the woman replied with another warm smile.

Justin fidgeted nervously as he debated how to express his appreciation for her support - which, in his experience, was pretty much a rarity at St. James - without turning into a weepy mess. Looking directly at his former teacher, he declared, “I’m really grateful for all your help, Frau Rose.”

“I want you to succeed, Justin,” Frau Rose assured her former pupil. “I also want St. James Academy to prosper, and I don’t see how that can happen if we don’t advocate for all our students.”

His bag packed with most of the textbooks he needed and his heart warmed by the librarian’s kindness, Justin waved farewell to Frau Rose and hastened to meet Daphne. The weather had been fairly mild for early November so they wouldn’t freeze if they sat outside, and no one was likely to hassle them if they nipped under the bleachers for an after-meal cigarette.

Justin scarfed down the sandwich Daphne had handed him, half-listening to her angrily expostulate about Chris and how he’d bullied yet another student in the cafeteria, knocking the kid’s tray out of his hands and making derogatory remarks. She ranted on, making ever more improbable suggestions about how they could help the bullied students.

“Let it go, Daph,” Justin wearily urged. “Hobbs is so deep in the closet that he’s attacking anyone he remotely suspects might be gay to deflect attention from himself.”

“But, Jus,” Daphne implored as she grabbed her friend’s hands, “someone has to stand up to Hobbs.”

Justin let out a bitter chuckle. “Didn’t you notice how well that worked out for me this morning?”

“You can’t just give up,” Daphne insisted, squeezing Justin’s hands more tightly.

“I’m not giving up, but I am being realistic,” Justin retorted. “I’d start a gay-straight student alliance if I weren’t sure that the administration would immediately put the kibosh on it. Let’s just help each other get through this nightmare of a senior year.”

“But . . .” Daphne spluttered for a while before finally conceding that Justin was probably correct, that they couldn’t effect change at St. James, no matter how much they wanted to. Her shoulders slumping, she leaned against Justin, who wrapped an arm around her waist.

“C’mon, Daph. I need a cigarette.” Justin stood and pulled Daphne to her feet before they both moved under the bleachers. Daphne pulled out a pack of Camels, and they smoked in silence for a few minutes.

After taking a drag from her Camel, Daphne suggested “Hey, how about if I return your sweats now, Jus?” Her voice conveyed her regret for his predicament as she admitted, “With you in detention and my mom needing the car, I won’t be able to give you a ride home.”

“Yeah, okay,” Justin agreed. “Fucking detention,” he grumbled as they walked to Daphne’s car.

Daph nodded in commiseration as she reminded him, “It’s only for four days, Justin, since school is closed Friday for the Veterans Day holiday.”

“Friday can’t come soon enough for me,” Justin stated in an exhausted voice before continuing, “doesn’t seem like this week is ever gonna end, and it’s only Monday.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” Daphne responded sympathetically. “I wish I could give you a ride every day, but . . .” she trailed off helplessly, “my parents refuse to buy me a car since I can share my mom’s.”

“I don’t mind taking the bus,” Justin replied with a shrug, “it’s not as if I wasn’t doing that anyway. Brian couldn’t drop me off most mornings, and he could hardly take off in the middle of the afternoon just to pick me up.”

“I’ll give you a ride whenever I can,” Daphne offered. “I’ll just ring you in advance, or tell you at school if I can drop you off after classes.”

“Thanks, Daph,” Justin acknowledged as they reached her car, “giving me a ride today was a huge help.”

Daphne unlocked the Honda Civic, leaning over to grab the sweats from the back seat and inconspicuously sniffing them - perhaps to see if, in spite of washing them the previous day, they retained the faintest hint of Justin’s body odor. “They’re clean,” she assured Justin as she handed the sweatpants to him.

Justin didn’t notice Daphne’s subtle inhalation and accepted the sweats with another ‘thank you’, stating hopefully, “Maybe I’ll have my other clothes by Monday, if the police release the loft to Brian before then. I could really use my uniform.”

“Do you think Brian will take your things to Deb’s house?” Daphne asked.

“Who knows?” Justin replied with a dejected huff, “He’s not even speaking to me right now.”

“He cares. I know he does,” Daphne consoled Justin up as they headed toward their physics class.

“I used to think so,” sighed Justin, “but he believes that actions speak louder than words, and his actions . . .” Justin didn’t finish the statement, fearing that might make it true - that Brian really didn’t care about him any longer.

As they were pulling out their physics’ textbooks a few minutes later, Daphne exclaimed, “Oh! Here’s my calculus book. You still want it, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Justin confirmed before murmuring, “Naturally, Dixon only gave Frau Rose one copy for the library reserve shelf, so I wasn’t able to borrow it.”

“You can keep it all week,” Daphne generously offered, “just make sure to bring it every day so we can share in class and prepare at lunchtime for our midterm on Thursday.”

Justin grinned fiercely at his friend and proclaimed, “I’m gonna ace that test, Daph, mark my words. That homophobic tosser won’t be able to blame my gayness for me not doing well enough in his class anymore.”

After physics, Justin and Daphne exchanged a quick hug and split up again, Daphne heading off to her German class, while Justin rushed to the computer lab for his IT lesson. He would normally have been excited about his favourite class of the day, since they were learning computer graphics and animation this semester, but with detention looming, that wasn’t the case this time. The whole lesson he was away with the fairies, not able to concentrate on his assignment at all. In the end, all he had to show for his efforts were two botched attempts at animating a walking human and a deep wrinkle between his brows. He logged off the computer with a disgusted sigh and then dashed along the hallway and down two flights of stairs toward the designated detention classroom.

Justin had never been sent to detention before, and he shifted nervously in his seat as he glanced around. He was in an ordinary classroom but it seemed a bit sinister, what with the whole detainment aspect. He’d been the first to arrive and watched as the other miscreants filtered in slowly, followed by Mr. Bauer.

He idly speculated about what the other three student detainees had done to land in detention as they seated themselves near Justin. Did they think clustering together would afford some kind of protection? Justin wondered. He almost felt like he should warn them that sitting near the gay boy was more likely to make them them targets for Bauer’s spiteful wrath.

When he glanced at the girl sitting next to him, she looked vaguely familiar - fairly quiet and kept to herself most of the time if he recalled correctly. Maybe one of the scholarship students based on her slightly dowdy appearance.

A student that Justin thought of as ‘the chess geek’ had claimed the seat right behind him. Although he didn’t know the guy’s name, he’d overheard him nattering on a time or two, talking to no one in particular, dissecting each and every move of a chess game that could have taken place a year earlier for all Justin knew. Not someone the blond had any desire to know better.

The final detainee, at the desk behind quiet girl, was a freshman rumored to be a troublemaker. A light-fingered lout and a smart-aleck, allegedly. Justin only recognized the youngster because Daphne had once pointed him out in the cafeteria while sharing the latest goss. The kid clearly wasn’t off to a good start at St. James since he’d already been assigned to detention.

Justin’s speculations came to an abrupt halt when Bauer demanded, “Place your backpacks under your seats. I don’t want to see anything except your folded hands on top of your desks.”

The teacher then made a big production out of taking roll call, “When I state your name, I expect you to immediately respond with, ‘Here, Sir!’” He unnecessarily tacked on, “Do you understand?”

Shit, the man sounded like a drill sergeant. Justin didn’t dare show any disrespect and remained silent when Bauer stared directly him as he called out each student’s name.

Bauer sneered the final name, ‘Justin Taylor’, and Justin promptly replied with the requisite, “Here, Sir!” The bastard intimated him, no question about it - and the others were cowed too, if the deathly silence was any indication.

The teacher looked quite gleeful as he warned all four students, “If you’re tardy or don’t adhere to the rules, you’ll be assigned to another week of detention.”

Bauer’s intimidating behavior made Justin apprehensive as to what the man might next demand. Although the part-time athletic coach, part time chemistry instructor, was known for ridiculing students and disciplining them severely, this exercise in humiliation still seemed excessive.

With an effort, Justin tamped down his inner turmoil. He didn’t know how he was going to survive a week of detention under Bauer’s thumb, but he’d manage somehow. He forced himself to listen as Bauer spouted, “Each day this week, you’ll spend the first half hour meditating about why you’re in detention.”

When the girl tentatively raised her hand, he barked out, “No questions. No interruptions. Just contemplation about what you’ve done wrong.”

Rather than meditating about his purported wrongful behavior, Justin regarded his folded hands and lost himself in a memory of his fingers gliding over a lean, muscled frame and silky skin that was tanned a golden brown, eliciting the most delightful moans from the man sprawled out naked beneath him...

“Eyes front, Mr. Taylor,” Bauer ordered, rapping his knuckles against the top of Justin’s desk, interrupting his pleasant daydream and yanking him back to the misery of detention.

Justin complied, while carefully maintaining a blank expression. The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness, the students sitting still like statues and staring at the enlarged, laminated St. James’ code of conduct, which had been affixed to the whiteboard.

After what could have been five minutes or half an hour - it was impossible to tell with time crawling by so slowly - a tapping sound came from the small window in the classroom door. Justin’s head swiveled to the right, and he found the jerk Hobbs leering nastily at him, mouthing ‘queer’, and motioning with his hand as if he were jerking himself off.

“Eyes front, Taylor!” Bauer commanded once more. “If I have to tell you again, you’ll be in detention for another week.”

Justin seethed inwardly. He’d seen Bauer trade smirks with Hobbs before ignoring the jock’s actions, intentionally displacing the blame to Justin. He dug his fingernails into his palms, almost breaking the skin as he strove to present an indifferent demeanor.

The movement of the second hand on the clock at the back of the classroom was the only sound to disturb the silence.

Finally, Bauer’s nasal, grating voice broke the interminable silence as he placed a lined sheet of paper and a pen on each student’s desk. “For the next half hour, you will work on an essay about how you’re going to adjust your outlook so that you exemplify the character we expect of our students at St. James.” The heels of his black dress shoes clacked loudly against the linoleum as he tramped to the front of the room before pivoting and exhorting, “Reflect carefully as you compose your essay. Your stay in detention will be extended if you don’t take this seriously.”

Just as Justin was sardonically wondering what they were supposed to do if they needed more than one piece of paper, Bauer pompously offered, “You may have a second sheet of paper during detention tomorrow. If you craft your essay meticulously, you won’t need more than one sheet today.” He then clapped his hands together once and demanded, “Begin!”

Given the strictures, this had to be the most ridiculously bizarre essay Justin had ever attempted to compose. Don’t write too quickly, or you won’t look ‘thoughtful’ enough to Bauer. Comply with and illustrate a code of conduct which didn’t apply equally to all students. What a fucking waste of time.

Justin’s brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought while he glared down at that innocuous piece of lined paper. He was a hairsbreadth from wadding up the page, throwing it down in front of Bauer, shouting, “This queer is out of here!” and escaping the building. Drawing in a deep breath, he willed himself to calm down and act maturely. He would hold out until graduation and, when he walked across the stage to accept his diploma, he would show all the homophobic jerks at St. James as well as his parents that they couldn’t force him to be someone other than himself. Placing pen to paper, Justin began to jot down what he considered to be drivel but would, he hoped, satisfy Bauer’s idiotic stipulations.

When Bauer called out, “Stop,” Justin heaved a sigh of relief. One day of detention completed.

“Bring me your essays and pens,” Bauer ordered, “and then you can leave for today. We’ll resume this meditation and writing exercise tomorrow.”

The other students leapt out of their seats so quickly that they outpaced Justin in their rush to Bauer’s table. Chess guy exited the room first, pleasantly surprising Justin. He’d half expected the dweeb to strike up a conversation with him, but maybe the dude had a tournament he was late to or something. Almost stepping on the geek’s heels, the troublemaker hurried out of the room.

Justin was shocked when the quiet girl laid down her sheet of paper, which she’d folded into an origami dove, blue ink visible on its wings and chest. It took all his willpower to suppress a chuckle at the stupefied expression on Bauer’s face. Setting his essay down next to the dove, he quickly exited the classroom.

He felt rather cheered by the girl’s clever act of rebellion as he hoofed it toward the bus stop, desperate to get away from the school grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Brian, who is currently not feeling very magnanimous, we actually care what you think. So please, do leave a comment to let us know :)


	5. Chapter 5

When the bus reached the stop closest to Debbie’s house, Justin hastened to get off, juggling his tote bag, the textbooks that hadn’t fit in the tote, the grungy white shirt from his locker, and his sweats. He almost tripped over one of the sweats’ legs, which had somehow twined around his feet. He hopped awkwardly from the bus onto the sidewalk and nearly dropped the sweatpants into the filthy gutter as he disentangled them from around his legs. Muttering to himself to get it together, he dashed down the street to the Novotny-Grassi home. He shouted a hello to Vic, who was lounging in the living room, and darted up the stairs to change from his cobbled-together uniform into some stone-washed jeans and a simple t-shirt.

“Whoa, Justin, where’s the fire?” Vic called out when the blond scrambled down the stairs a few minutes later and darted toward the front door.

“I’m running late for my shift at the diner,” Justin tossed over his shoulder as he shut the front door. “I’ll see you tonight!” he shouted, and not waiting for Vic’s reply, he dashed down the street to the eatery. He skidded through the door, which was being held open by a leather daddy waiting for his companion to enter the diner. “Slow down, Blondie,” lectured the petite leather-clad man, who Justin would never have guessed to be a dominant, “so we can better admire your luscious behind.”

The gentle teasing flustered Justin, who hadn’t yet adjusted to all the ogling, verbal come-ons, and groping he received as a busboy. He didn’t recognize either the dom or his sub, and wasn’t sure if either of them remembered him from Babylon or his frequent visits to the diner with Brian. As Justin gasped for breath, he decided the dom’s advice to slow down was good regardless of the reason for it - it wouldn’t hurt to be able to take a breath every once in a while. He certainly didn’t want to end up hyperventilating before he even began his shift. He waved at Debbie, who was at the other end of the diner, as he retrieved his apron from a hook in the break room.

Justin quickly grabbed a tub from the kitchen and began to clear the dishes from a couple of empty tables, wiping them down afterward and checking to make sure that the usual condiments and a holder filled with napkins were placed at the end of the tables nearest the windows. The couple who’d been entering the diner when he’d arrived immediately claimed one of the booths, while three chattering queens slid into another.

After setting down the tub back in the kitchen, Justin delivered menus to the five customers. He glanced around, astounded at how busy the diner was on a Monday afternoon, until he realized it was going on five o’clock and that the early dinner rush had already started.

“You okay, Kiddo?” Deb asked as she bustled past him to the cash register. “Kiki passed on your message that you’d be an hour later than expected, but didn’t say why.”

“I have everything under control,” Justin assured the waitress with the sunniest smile he could produce, “no need to worry.”

Deb opened her mouth to quiz him further, but was distracted by a rowdy customer yelling, “Where’s my Pink Plate special?”

“Hold your horses - or your dick - whichever you prefer,” Deb shouted, “but you won’t get your food any faster than we can cook it.

Justin grinned at the raillery. This shift at the diner was just what he needed to forget his shitty day at St. James.

When the bell pinged at the kitchen pass-through moments later, Deb requested, “Sunshine, could you check whether that’s the Pink Plate special and, if it is, take it to the impatient dick over there?”

“Sure thing, Deb,” Justin replied, still smiling broadly. After glancing at the dish to make sure it was in fact the Pink Plate special, Justin carried it over to the antsy customer.

“Here you go, sir,” he said, offering the burly man a friendly smile and setting the plate in front of him.

The man’s stomach emitted a loud rumble at exactly that moment and he sheepishly excused himself, “Tell the waitress I didn’t mean to be such a pain, wouldya? It’s just that I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

“Don’t worry,” Justin assured him as he tucked into his meal, “if you show appreciation for the food, Debbie will forgive you.”

As Justin walked away, the customer stopped eating long enough to whistle appreciatively, “Now that’s a view that makes my wait worthwhile.”

When Justin returned to the counter, Deb was waiting, arms akimbo. “So what’s the story, Sunshine? I know you wouldn’t have been late without a good reason.”

Justin knew he had to come clean and so, in a quiet tone, he related the disastrous first hour of his school day and how Dixon had penalized him with detention for being out of uniform. He concluded by asking, “Is it okay if I start my shift an hour later for the next three days? I don’t want to leave you short-handed, but there’s no way I can get out of detention.”

“Starting later is no problem, Kiddo, since it doesn’t really get busy until four o’clock,” the waitress confirmed before continuing, “and that wouldn’t matter anyway. Your schoolwork comes first, so be sure to tell me if you need time off, you hear?”

“I will,” Justin promised, though he hoped it wouldn’t actually be necessary. “Honestly, working at the diner clears my head of all the crap I have to wade through at St. James.”

“That homophobic bastard of a teacher,” Debbie fumed, “I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.”

Justin sighed, “Thanks, Deb, but it wouldn’t help. In fact, it might make matters worse. Ever since I was outed, Dixon has been on my case, looking for any excuse to take me to task.”

“Won’t he harass you about your uniform tomorrow?” Deb’s brow furrowed in concern as she looked at Justin.

“I don’t think he’ll ding me for the same infraction twice,” Justin replied with a helpless shrug. “Maybe he’ll be satisfied by punishing me with detention. I’ll try not to draw his ire again.”

“If anything else happens, I expect you to let me know,” Deb insisted. ”The principal won’t know what’s hit him if I show up _in loco parentis_ for you. If need be, we’ll take Mel along; after all, she’s the one who told me what _loco parentis_ even was.”

Justin was surprised that Debbie would have talked to Mel about standing in as his mother - thinking that maybe it had been in regard to someone else - but touched that she cared so much, especially since his real mother seemed to have relinquished the job. He hadn’t heard a word from Jennifer since Molly’s birthday party. He stepped forward and gave Deb a quick hug, blinking furiously and sniffling as he backed away.

“Those allergies sure are something, aren’t they Sunshine?” Deb kindly joked as she surreptitiously wiped away a bit of moisture from the corners of her eyes. “Enough of that,” she finished briskly, “it’s back to work for us or none of these hungry folks are going to get fed.”

For the next hour, Justin and Debbie rushed to and fro, serving the dinner crowd. The blond was surprised at how much he was enjoying himself, exchanging banter with both the customers and Debs. Deftly avoiding pinching fingers, he exaggerated the sway of his hips as he moved about, which garnered not only appreciative glances and remarks but also larger tips.

Harry arrived to take over from Debbie, and the redhead told Justin she’d see him at home later than evening. “Make sure he takes a break and eats something for dinner,” she cautioned the waiter as she headed out the door, “that boy will just keep on working if you let him.”

Justin threw Debbie an exasperated look but was secretly chuffed that she cared about him so much that she took the time to remind him to eat. It was such a motherly thing to do that Justin could see why Debbie was considered to be every local gay man’s mum. He waved the redhead off with a smile and resumed clearing tables with a lighter heart. It was shortly thereafter, as the blond was returning to the counter from having served a couple of queens in full drag, that a tall brunet walked in, making Justin’s anxiety return full force.

 

Brian was tired as he entered the Liberty Diner. His workday had been hectic, filled with pages upon pages of annoying paperwork, demanding clients interrupting his jerk-off sessions, and incompetent font designers to top it all off. How could anyone misinterpret the instruction of creating a clean and simple font and turn in a curlicue-heavy, inkpen-stylised mess? The fact that there were no actual inkblots didn’t mean it could be considered ‘clean’.

The brunet walked up to the counter, remembering fondly the way he’d shafted the unfortunate designer in front of the whole art department - there was certainly something to be said for letting out his frustrations on unsuspecting, subpar workers. He had almost made the squirrelly man cry, which had felt especially satisfying after his minging weekend.

“Um… hi, Brian,” came a hesitant greeting from behind the counter, and the ad executive found himself yet again face-to-face with the blond bane of his existence.

“Justin,” he nodded back, his face plain and unaffected.

The teenager shot him a nervous glance before focusing his gaze downwards at the polished surface of the diner bar and asking, “What can I get you?”

Brian frowned at the daily menu scrawled on a chalkboard behind the counter. “I’ll take the tuna salad - without the mayonnaise - and some whole wheat crackers,” he decided. Then, stepping away from the counter, he continued, “Bring it over, will you?”

He didn’t wait for Justin’s acknowledgment, just went over to a free table near the front of the diner and sat down. He briefly contemplated taking out his laptop and putting in some more work before dinner, but quickly decided that he would have a more positive outlook on things once he had some food in him, so he just opened the evening newspaper that someone had left on a nearby table and started reading about the latest traffic restrictions in Pittsburgh’s downtown area.

His morose muttering about a roundabout that was planned for Tremont Street in the next two months - completely unnecessary, if you asked him - was interrupted by the clank of a chilled glass being settled in front of him. Brian looked up to see a sheepish Justin.

“You, uh, haven’t ordered anything to drink, so I thought I’d bring you some guava juice?” the blond explained in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, motioning to the pink liquid.

Brian nodded sharply, not gracing Justin with a verbal answer, before watching the twink shuffle back to the bar with slumped shoulders. Brian hated it. He hated seeing the normally cheerful and undeterred boy look so defeated, and he hated actually caring about the lad even more. It seemed as if no matter what he was or wasn’t doing, Justin was always ruining his day.

His unfriendly face must’ve discouraged Justin from any further attempts at communication, because the bowl of tuna salad as well as the packet of crackers were deposited in front of him completely without a word. In fact, the blond server didn’t even look at him, thus further chilling the already freezing atmosphere that prevailed between the two men.

The uncomfortable feeling didn’t leave Brian until the heavy silence was disrupted by a racket caused by a trio of bumbling stooges - or Michael, Theodore, and Emmett, as they liked to call themselves.

“Hi, Brian!” his best friend greeted him cheerfully as he slid into the booth next to him, pressing close to his body, while Ted and Emmett seated themselves across the table, reaching for their menus. Brian didn’t know why they even bothered, since neither one of them ever strayed from their usual order. Unlike Michael, who was never quite sure what to order and often ended up having to eat something he wasn’t all that fond of.

“What do you think I should get, Bri?” the man in question asked, scowling at his own menu.

Brian shrugged, shovelling a forkful of tuna salad into his mouth. His friend’s plight was most likely caused by the fact that he rarely ever ordered anything based on his own tastes, usually accommodating the palates of his companions instead. The only time the man seemed to decide for himself was when he was eating alone, in which case Brian was almost certain to find his friend stuffing his face with a greasy burger and fries.

“Brian,” whined Michael, “help me choose, please.”

The ad executive managed to suppress an annoyed sigh. No reason he should impose his own bad mood on his friends. “What do you feel like having?”

“I don’t know, I thought I’d have a salad or something. You know I’m trying to eat healthy.”

Brian knew no such thing but he decided not to comment. “Have a salad then,” he shrugged.

Michael nodded his head, perusing the menu some more. “So it’s either a pasta salad with tomatoes or a tuna salad,” he concluded. “I don’t really like fish but tuna is healthy, right? ”

Brian nodded noncommittally, annoyed with the conversation. Fuck imposing his bad mood on his friends, he thought, if Michael said one more word about fucking salad, he wasn’t going to hold back.

It was at that moment that Justin came over to take their orders. Typical, fumed Brian, of course the blond would come just when he was about to snap like a tightly wound rubber band - it was like the universe was conspiring to drive him out of his mind. “Hey guys,” the busboy greeted them with a professional-looking smile that grated on Brian’s nerves, “what’s it gonna be?”

“I’ll have the tuna salad,” Michael immediately replied, “and some sparkling water.”

Ted threw him a surprised glance. “I thought you hated fish, Michael,” he commented.

Michael was clearly determined not to have anyone rain on his parade, as he replied, “Tuna’s not really fish. I mean it’s more like eating sea cow, right?”

“Huh?” Ted blinked at Michael in confusion, wondering how a fish could be confused with a cow.

“You know,” Michael held his hands apart to indicate size, “they’re really big and sorta grey.” Turning toward Brian for corroboration, he asked, “Didn’t we learn in high school that they’re mammals?”

As Brian stared at his friend in astonishment, Emmett gasped, “Oh, my god, you want to eat Flipper.”

“What?” Michael gawped at his outraged friend, “No, I want a tuna salad.”

Brian felt like banging his head against the table in frustration. How could his day have progressed from dealing with the imbeciles in Ryder’s art department to this farce of a discussion about tuna? “Why don’t you just order a burger, Michael?” he suggested dryly, “then you’d definitely be eating ‘cow’ meat.”

“You know what? That’s a great idea,” Michael enthused, happily accepting his best friend’s recommendation, forgetting all about eating healthily.

Justin coughed to disguise the chuckle that threatened to bubble up, politely reminding the guys that he was there to take their orders, “What can I get you then?”

“A double cheeseburger and fries. And a Coke.” Michael stated firmly without looking at Justin. When Justin turned toward Emmett and Ted for their selections, Michael amended, “Make that a triple-decker burger.”

Satisfied that’d he’d ordered the right thing, Michael looked at Brian and said, “You know, Brian, you should’ve gotten a burger. That tuna looks kinda gross.”

Brian forked another bite of his dinner into his mouth to avoid saying something he might regret later. He loved Michael, he really did, but sometimes the man just drove him crazy with his smothering presence and childlike thinking - so much so that Brian had thought of knocking their friendship on the head a few times in the past. He’d never gone as far as going through with it because, after all was said and done, Michael was still his best friend and his innocent attitude was a part of his charm, but he did remember a few impromptu business trips he’d had to make when Michael was at his most annoying.

Coming out of his reverie, Brian found out he hadn’t paid attention to what was going on at their table. Theodore and Emmett had apparently already ordered their meals and were debating whether they should ask for Coke or Dr. Pepper to wash it down, while Michael was now attempting to fold a fortune teller out of his napkin. Brian glared first at the two men opposite him, then at the crumpled excuse for a children’s game, before he finally settled his chippy gaze on Justin, who was dutifully waiting by their table with his little notepad in hand.

“We’ll have the Coke then,” Ted stated decisively, handing the menus back to the blond with a smile.

“Coke’s the best,” Michael nodded sagely.

Brian tuned out their conversation again as they turned their nattering to the Absolute Abs contest, or whatever event was coming up at Babylon. It really didn’t matter to him, since he always ended up fucking the winner - who of course was the hottest guy there - anyroad.

Only paying attention again when the blond server delivered their drinks and meals, Brian found himself getting more irritated when Justin shot a friendly smile at the other three men - even Michael - but didn’t so much as glance at him. “Can I get you anything else?” the teenager asked.

Michael didn’t respond to Justin’s question, but Emmett grinned at his young friend and assured, “We’re good, Baby.”

In an effort to get a rise out of the normally unquenchable blond and make him look at him, Brian waited until Justin had stepped away from the table before requesting, “I’ll take a cup of that sludge that passes for coffee.”

Tossing a crisp, “Coming right up, sir,” over his shoulder, Justin grabbed a cup, saucer, and spoon and carried them over to the table along with a steaming carafe of coffee.

After placing the cup in front of Brian, he paused, looking directly at Brian with a concerned expression, before inquiring in an extremely solicitous tone, “Did you want to ladle in the sugar first, so that I can add a smidgen of the brew?”

Ted and Emmett guffawed, and Michael, too, barked out a laugh before realizing he was laughing at Brian’s expense, thereafter quickly adopting a serious mien.

“Thought you had a rule about no carbs after seven,” Ted quipped, “or is sugar in coffee the exception to the rule?”

Brian was so nonplussed that he froze momentarily, the sugar container already in hand, involuntarily glancing down at his Bvlgari Octo wristwatch - one item that thankfully hadn’t been nicked since he’d been wearing it on Saturday - to see that it was indeed past seven o’clock. Fucking Twat, he bristled, at a rare loss for a comeback.

Michael attempted to come to the rescue. “Coffee is the most important food group, Ted, and who doesn’t put sugar in coffee?”

“I take my coffee black,” Ted responded wryly, “not that you’ve ever noticed, of course.”

“Honey,” Emmett drawled, “I do like sugar in my coffee, but not coffee in my sugar. Furthermore,” he exclaimed, addressing the table at large, “though essential to our well-being, coffee is not actually a food group.”

With a direful glare at Justin, who after all was responsible for his woes, the ad exec finally recovered his voice, “If you’d had all your goods burgled and were bunking at the munchers, you’d also need sugar to cope.” Brian hadn’t meant to let slip where he was staying and winced inwardly as he anticipated their reactions. Fuck, he really should warn Linds and Mel to expect an increase in visits, particularly from Michael.

His friends goggled at him, too astounded that he was staying with the lesbians rather than at a hotel to utter a word.

Justin, who was still waiting to pour Brian’s coffee, did his best to ignore the man’s baleful look and simply blinked. He wasn’t surprised by the brunet’s announcement since Brian would probably find it comforting to be around Lindsay - whether he admitted it to himself or not -  and, of course, it was natural that Brian would enjoy the extra time with Gus.

When Michael opened his gob, no doubt to inquire why Brian wasn’t kipping with him if he didn’t want to be in a hotel, Justin forestalled him. The teen was deeply hurt by the way Brian continued to direct his ire toward him, but it was still the blond’s inclination to soothe Brian’s distress, especially since he seemed to have caused it yet again. Leaning over the table, he asked in a placid voice, “Should I pour your coffee?”

“Yes,” Brian growled, “that’s what you’re here for after all.”

Justin bit his lip to stop himself from saying anything that would further antagonise his former lover and simply filled his cup. After that, he quietly stepped away, returning the coffee carafe to its place and then checking with his other customers as to whether they wanted anything else.

Brian wanted to rub his forehead in an effort to reduce his burgeoning headache, stopping himself at the last moment. His well-meaning best friend would be all over him in an effort to soothe, and he couldn’t handle any more such help. He sighed in relief as blissful silence reigned at the table for the next ten minutes, the boys too busy chowing down to talk.

Michael finished eating first and, as he chewed his final mouthful of cheeseburger, he turned toward Brian and eagerly asked, “How about we take on Em and Ted in a game of pool once we’re at Woody’s?” spewing flecks of food onto Brian’s Armani suit as he spoke.

Brian backed away as far as he could, brushing ineffectually at himself with a napkin. Fuck! His tailor was altering the new Zegna, Armani, and Loro Piani suits he’d selected during his afternoon shopping expedition but, even with a rush job, wouldn’t have any of them ready before the end of the next day. Refusing to even consider Hugo Boss had limited his options somewhat, but he couldn’t abide the thought of wearing suits designed by a company with Nazi connections, even if those connections had long been severed.

Unusually for him, he hadn’t enjoyed shopping because he’d had to rush and couldn’t browse at his usual pace, which involved inspecting every article of clothing thoroughly. Plus, he’d had to buy absolutely everything - from briefs, wifebeaters, socks, and accessories to jeans, shirts, suits, and an overcoat - before the specialty menswear stores had closed for the day. He’d also hoped to replace his dogshit-tainted Prada boots, but all that remained in his size was last season’s style, which he refused to wear. He’d settled for Gucci shoes and a belt even though they weren’t quite what he wanted.

To go with the suits, he’d purchased Gieves and Hawkes shirts as well as some of Armani’s ones. He’d paused briefly to admire the Borsalino hats, which he would never wear despite them being very stylish. A handsome redhead had just tried one on, eyeing Brian flirtatiously from under the brim, tempting Brian to indulge in a dressing room blowjob. He’d had to regretfully decline, shaking his head at the man, since he hadn’t had enough time to finish his shopping as it was.

His glance lingering on the trick, he’d quickly chosen a couple of Battistoni and Davidoff neckties and a creamy white silk scarf that he thought he’d set aside for a special occasion. Calvin Klein jeans as well as Emporio Armani boxer briefs and t-shirts had rounded out his purchases, making a sizable dent in his American Express card. He’d been utterly incensed at the obscene amounts he’d spent, although he normally took great pride in being able to purchase whatever fashionable attire he desired, making him mutter under his breath about that feckless blond as he’d left the final shop.

Brian continued to swipe at the crumbs decorating his suit, even mistaking one splotch on his slacks for a grease stain - having forgotten all about the come he’d gotten on his trousers during his office handjob. The entire time, he berated himself for not having changed into casual wear before heading to the diner. This Armani suit had to last one more day; fortunately, he would be able to don a fresh shirt, tie, underwear, socks, and shoes on the morrow. He threw a reproachful look Michael’s way for having sprayed him with his half-chewed food, but he didn’t see much reason to be actually upset with Michael, whose behavior wasn’t at all unusual, instead placing the blame for his clothing situation squarely where it belonged - on Justin.

As Brian was wiping away the cheeseburger crumbs, Emmett took a final sip of his soda and burped, immediately covering his mouth and excusing himself with a well-mannered, “Pardon me.” He fished some bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table, careful to include a sizeable tip for Justin.

Standing up, he then bounced in place. “Let’s go grab a beer and play a round of pool at Woody’s before we shake our tailfeathers at Babylon, boys,” he exclaimed excitedly.

Ted shrugged in easygoing compliance, pulling out his wallet to cover his meal and dropping another two dollars onto the table when Emmett raised his eyebrows at him, before sliding out of the booth after his friend. Michael noisily slurped the the last of his Coke, his meal long demolished, and rose to join his friends before realizing Brian was still ensconced in the booth.

“Aren’t you going to leave a tip?” Emmett commented disapprovingly, just as Michael clamored, “Brian, get up. You know the tricks are waiting for you.”

“A tip?” Em repeated, tapping his foot against the floor.

“My meals are comped, what with Ma working here,” Michael belatedly replied, “and I figure that includes tips. Besides, that waiter didn’t do anything special, so why should I leave him a _graciaity_?”

Emmett frowned at Michael but didn’t argue the point any further, reaching into his pocket as if to leave a tip in Michael’s stead, when he noticed Brian gesturing that he’d take care of it.

“You run along,” Brian spoke up at last, “I’m going to finish eating while I work on a presentation.” He motioned towards his laptop case in explanation, deliberately not mentioning that the project’s deadline was still almost a week away. He really just wanted the three men to leave him in peace so he could keep an eye on the blond busboy for a while. Clearly, Deb had offered the blond a job as well as a place to stay. Regardless of Justin’s motivations for accepting the position at the diner, Brian was curious about how Justin would behave.

Michael tugged at Brian’s arm, “Leave the rest of your salad,” he begged, “it smells off to me. You really shouldn’t have gotten the fish.”

“C’mon, Jessica Simpson,” Ted urged, “leave Brian be, and get a move on.”

“What?” Brian could hear Michael squawk as Emmett and Ted took him by the arms and towed him out the door. Glad to see the last of his friends for the night, the brunet pulled out his laptop and settled in to review his notes for his upcoming meeting with Ryder. Instead of preparing, though, he soon found himself surreptitiously watching the blond under the guise of working. He couldn’t help but admire the blond for working so hard, but at the same time felt his anger build at how Justin had seemingly forgotten all about the burglary and its lasting effects on Brian. Fuck, he’d just had to replace a portion of his wardrobe, without taking the time to ensure everything measured up to his usual sartorial standards. Justin, however, apparently hadn’t had any difficulty replenishing his unpolished wardrobe of khakis and tees, and looked to the brunet’s jaundiced eyes as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

As Brian was growing steadily more irate, the other waiter on the evening shift carried a plate over to Justin at the counter and encouraged, “Time to take a break and eat. You heard Deb, and you know she’ll have my balls if you skip dinner.”

“Can’t have that, Harry,” Justin teased the cheeky Vietnamese-American bloke with a rather wan smile. “I’ll just take this to the break room,” he offered. Although he hadn’t actually caught Brian looking at him, he felt those hazel eyes watching his every move and it put him on edge.

His attempt to escape Brian’s gaze foundered, however, when Harry replied, “No need, man. Just pour yourself a drink and eat here at the counter. There won’t be another onrush of customers until the clubs close, so it’s not like you’ll be taking a seat away from anyone.”

Justin poured himself a glass of milk and began to eat, taking bites from his fork with his left hand and idly doodling on his notepad with his right hand. A frowning, accusatory Kinney, much like the one Justin had been facing in his dreams and in person since the robbery, took shape on the pad. Annoyed to find himself automatically drawing Brian, he crumpled the offending sketch and tossed it toward the trashcan before starting a new doodle.

As his mini-portrait of Debbie progressed, Justin concentrated on getting her motherly expression just right and forgot about everything else, including his dinner, until he was interrupted by an abrasive voice from the booth directly across from where he was perched at the counter. “Well, it looks to me like you’ve landed on your feet,” the sarcastic voice rasped. “Got everyone feeling sorry for poor little _Sunshine_ and offering comfort?”

Justin set his pencil down slowly and deliberately so that he wouldn’t mar his drawing and looked up until he was staring directly into incensed hazel eyes. “If you want to talk to me, Brian, just say so. Unless we’re going to have a civil conversation, however, I’m not interested. I’ve had enough of you putting me down, giving me the cold shoulder, and throwing out random accusations.”

“Random accusations?” the brunet parroted incredulously. “You left my loft unlocked, resulting in all my possessions being nicked, and you dare to suggest that I don’t have every right to be angry?”

“I can’t change how you feel,” Justin responded wearily, pushing his plate to the side as the little he’d consumed roiled unpleasantly in his stomach, “though I don’t see how bullying me and sniping at me while I eat is going to improve matters.” The aggrieved teen was thankful that there were only a few customers at the back of the diner since he really didn’t want news of this altercation to spread up and down Liberty Avenue. Bad enough that all the madly gossiping fags had undoubtedly already heard about the burglary.

“Bullying you? You know what’s bullying?” Brian growled. “Having your privacy invaded by strangers because a trick didn’t lock the door!” Looking Justin up and down, he scoffed, “You didn’t have any trouble replacing your togs, such as they are, but I have to dress professionally to represent Ryder which, due to your negligence, has been damned difficult.”

At the stinging barb about him being nothing more than a trick, Justin had no trouble holding back another futile apology or, worse, blurting out his plan to make restitution - a plan which, with Brian treating him this way, he would rather the brunet didn’t discover for a long time. He did have to grit his teeth, however, to avoid further insulting Brian.

Brian forced himself to calm down, not wanting to make a spectacle out of himself in the diner. Unbeknownst to the ad exec, his thoughts about fueling the gossip on Liberty Avenue ran parallel to the teen’s. Deciding that there was no point in continuing this discussion with an unrepentant Justin, he abruptly closed his laptop and stuffed it into his briefcase, before standing up and reaching for his wallet. He pulled out enough to cover his meal as well as generous tips for both himself and Michael. Although he was pissed off at the blond in regard to the burglary, Brian wasn’t about to stiff him for his hard work as a server.

Right after Brian dropped the money onto the table, Justin’s fine-fingered hand shot out, startling him since he hadn’t heard the teen approach, and pushed a twenty-dollar bill back into his hand. “I don’t need your charity,” a low voice seethed, “just payment for your meal, which you’ve already covered.”

When Brian glanced up, he met icy blue eyes sparkling with a fury that matched his own. Since he hadn’t expected Justin to confront him in regard to the gratuity, he couldn’t think how to tell the disdainful blond that it was a simple tip for his hard work without making the situation worse. Twenty dollars was too large a tip for one person, and he could hardly admit that he was also leaving a tip for Michael without making the teen more irate. Shrugging in acquiescence to the blond’s demand, he pocketed the tip, stepped around Justin, and exited the diner.

Discouraged, Justin sagged against the table, his energy draining away as he watched Brian walk out of the diner. He was proud of himself for standing up to Brian but devastated by his ongoing antagonism. Justin was tempted to ask someone else to serve the brunet the next time he came into the diner during his shift but resolved that he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction.

 

Brian, equally dissatisfied by their encounter, pounded his hands against the steering wheel after sliding into the jeep. He wanted to stop thinking about the kid, but that was going to be impossible unless he quit frequenting the diner. Fuck if he was going to let the brat steal something else from him; he’d been eating at the diner since he was fourteen and was going to keep doing so for as long as he wanted. He’d just have to give the kid the silent treatment from now on, only speaking to him when necessary.

Desperate to relax, Brian popped open the glove compartment, searching for the joint he remembered stashing there. He sighed in relief as he found the doobie where he’d left it, inside a Ziploc bag in the middle of the operating manual for the jeep. Shoving the plastic baggie into the pocket containing the twenty-dollar bill, he decided to head to Linds and Mel’s house and mellow out with the joint on their couch. Maybe he’d even jerk off, he thought. It was a good idea since that couch could definitely use some of his manly odor to overpower the lingering lesbian scents.

Brian walked into the living room, not really paying much attention to his surroundings as he mulled over his evening at the diner, which is most likely why he didn’t notice he was heading into dangerous territory until it was too late. There, on the couch right in the middle of the room, Lindsay and Melanie were snogging their faces off, shirts unbuttoned and hands busy exploring naked skin. Utterly revolted, Brian averted his eyes, complaining vociferously, “Fuck! Don’t you know what a bedroom is for? How am I supposed to sleep on that thing now?”

Two appalled faces stared back at him as the women quickly covered themselves up. Wrapping a hideous orange and yellow throw around Mel - the one that Brian had been using as a blanket - a flustered Lindsay responded, “We thought you’d be going to Babylon tonight. What are you doing home so early?”

Waving the joint around, an indignant Brian yelled, “And that makes it okay to fuck on the couch where I’m sleeping?”

“Don’t you know the difference between cuddling and fucking?” Mel retorted as she regained her equilibrium, clearly irritated to have been interrupted.

“I don’t cuddle. I fuck.” Brian declared emphatically, accidentally dropping the reefer which he’d stabbed in Mel’s direction as he was making his point.

Brian watched in dismay as his last blunt - well, other than the ones in his safety deposit box - rolled under the sofa on which Mel and Linds still sat.

Snickers came from the couch as the two women watched Brian crawl around on the carpet in his efforts to reach the wayward joint, muttering the whole while about having to decontaminate it. “Aha!” he exclaimed as he finally snagged the errant reefer between his thumb and forefinger.

After standing up, Brian ostentatiously used the linen doily on the end table to wipe off the joint, grimacing as he did so.

“Could I have a toke?” Mel requested, apparently unconcerned about germs, “I need to unwind and since you so rudely interrupted, it’s the least you can do.”

Brian wanted to refuse but could hardly do so when it was their couch - defiled or not - that he was sleeping on. After lighting up, he sat down next to Linds, took a puff, and passed the joint to the bulldyke.

“Sorry, Linds,” Mel apologized at the blonde’s look of reproach, “but I had a hellacious day at work.”

“If only I weren’t breastfeeding,” Lindsay murmured, glancing longingly at the joint as it once again passed in front of her face when Melanie returned it to Brian.

“Please,” Brian begged with an exaggerated shudder,” I don’t need another horrendous image to plague my sleep tonight. Leave your tits out of it.”

Lindsay huffed in pretend pique. “My tits are fine, thank you very much.”

“I’d drink to that,” commented a slightly-high Melanie before Brian could come up with another disgusted response. “In fact,” she continued, “I might do just that. Where did you put that bourbon, Babe?”

Lindsay scowled at her. “You’re not really going to open that now, are you? I’m breastfeeding,” she kvetched.

Listing a bit to the left at she stood, Mel toddled over to the media cabinet. “In here, wasn’t it?” Opening the door on the left, she reached behind a stack of videos, exclaiming, “Aha!” as she triumphantly surfaced with a two-thirds full bottle of Beam.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Mel promised, ogling Lindsay’s bosom as she sat back down next to her partner.

“Please! Enough with waving your tits around,” Brian complained.

With a smirk at Brian, Mel encouraged, “Don’t stop, Babe, I like what I see.”

Brian frowned, muttering to himself about bulldykes with an overabundance of testosterone.

Grinning smugly at having gotten the better of Brian, Mel passed the bourbon to him, offering, “Trade you.”

“Who knew you had such excellent taste in whiskey?” Brian snarked. He accepted the Beam with an approving nod and handed the joint back to Melanie, his grumpiness receding as he uncapped the bottle and took a healthy swig.

“I might ask the same question of you,” Mel retorted, “I’ve been drinking Beam since I was a college freshman.”

Still smarting from Mel’s earlier set-down, Brian riposted, “Selling your services way back then?” deliberately omitting any indication of what kind of services he had in mind.

He wondered vaguely why Mel blanched at his question before challenging, “No more than you, I’m sure.”

“Whoa!” Lindsay interjected, before standing up, “if the two of you are going to play another game of one-upmanship, I’m off to bed.” With that, the annoyed blonde headed up the stairs.

“Huh,” Brian eloquently remarked, “I thought we were being quite congenial.”

Melanie huffed out a laugh, “I’ll drink to that.” Handing Brian the rapidly-dwindling reefer, she snatched the bottle and took a swig.

Each attempted to ascertain what kind of services the other might have sold - covering everything from a lemonade stand to standing at street corners - and passing the bottle back and forth until it was empty, the last toke of the joint long since inhaled. Eventually, they passed out, both of them tilting sideways until Brian’s head came to rest against the arm of the couch, with Mel’s head balanced on his stomach, one arm around his waist.

 

While Brian and Mel were swilling whiskey and trading insults, Justin was just finishing his shift, grateful to Deb for letting him work from five till nine instead of four till eight during his week of detention. Intending to give it to Debbie, he rolled up the signed sketch, tying it shut with a bit of string before stashing it in the pocket of his jacket. He scurried down Liberty Ave toward Deb and Vic’s house, the chill night air raising goosebumps on the skin not covered by his thin jacket. He was glad once more that he’d had the jacket on when he’d gone to Molly’s birthday party; otherwise, that was another article of clothing he’d have had to do without until the police released the loft to Brian.

Fuck! Everything made him think about the brunet. Determinedly putting Brian out of his mind, Justin began a mental review of the calculus problems that were likely to crop up on Thursday’s exam.

“Hey, Vic! Deb!” he called out as he entered the house and found the siblings watching CSI on the telly in the living room. Justin half-watched the show as he waited for a commercial break so he could ask, “Deb, would it be alright if I did a load of wash? I need a fresh shirt for school tomorrow.”

“Sure, Kiddo. Let me just show you how that cantankerous old machine works,” Deb offered, standing up from the couch.

Justin quickly ran upstairs to get his dirty clothes before joining Deb in the service porch. Nodding toward the living room, he shrugged, “I didn’t mean to take you away from your show.”

“Not to worry, Sunshine,” Deb replied with an affectionate smile, “Vic can fill me in if I miss anything interesting.” The redhead looked at the items Justin wanted to launder and suggested, “We should probably throw those in with some of Vic’s clothes to make a full load.”

Once Deb showed him how to operate the old washer, they got the load of wash started. Remembering the sketch in his pocket, Justin pulled it out and rather bashfully handed it to the motherly woman, “Ehm, Debbie, I thought you might like this.”

“Why, Justin! You’ve captured exactly how I look!” Debbie exclaimed in amazement after removing the string and unrolling the slip of paper, holding the drawing up to the light to see it better. “We have to show this to Vic,” she asserted, bustling toward the living room with Justin trailing embarrassedly along behind her.

Deb shoved the sketch toward her brother, “Take a look at this portrait Sunshine made of me.”

Rather put out with Deb for blocking his view of the TV, Vic nevertheless glanced at the drawing and instantly forgot all about the CSI investigation. “When did you create this?” he asked Justin, the admiration clear in his voice.

Justin had simply intended the drawing to be a small expression of gratitude and, even though he thought it a good likeness, he didn’t really consider it worth gushing over. “Uh, at the diner on my break,” he admitted, squirming a bit in self-consciousness.

“Heck, Sis, you should display some Justin’s sketches at the diner,” Vic advised. “I bet he could make some money off of them.”

“That’s a mint idea, Vic!” Deb agreed enthusiastically. “Sunshine, you could become famous as the Liberty Diner Artist.”

Justin began chuckling at that notion, with Debbie and Vic soon joining him. “Okay, okay,” the redhead gasped, “that might be overly ambitious, but who knows what could happen?”

“She’s right,” Vic agreed, “you’d have a captive audience at the diner, especially if you draw something a little racier than my Sis.”

Rather bemused but also intrigued, the teen demurred, “I don’t know, Vic. I don’t think I’m quite ready for all that.”

“Well, just keep it in mind,” Deb encouraged, “talent like yours should be nurtured, Honey.”

“Right now, I’d better think about my calculus midterm,” the teen stated, tabling the notion of selling his drawings for the time being. With that, he excused himself and headed up to Michael’s old room, pulling out his textbook and settling in to study until he needed to move the laundry to the dryer.

Later on, after quickly and easily solving several calculus derivatives, Justin was feeling more confident about acing his Thursday midterm. He’d taken breaks during his study session to transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer, fold the clothes, and iron his two shirts. Both siblings had laughed when he’d stuck his head into the living room to inquire whether Vic wanted anything ironed, Vic finally gasping out, “I don’t think anything could make those old sweats and tees more presentable.”

A grinning Justin had started to turn away from the living room when Deb had advised, “Careful with that steam iron, Sunshine. After you fill the tank with water, let it heat, hold it up, and then press the steam button. After the whitish gunk spurts out, it should be safe to use.”

Once he’d finished the ironing - heeding Deb’s warning and and giggling when he had discovered that the iron performed exactly as advertised - Justin had put away his clothes, already grateful that he wouldn’t have to make time to iron in the morning. After that he’d spread out Daphne’s calculus textbook and his workbook on the kitchen table, indulging in a slice of chocolate cake, and then scarfing down a second piece because it was so tasty. He’d looked up a bit guiltily when Deb had stuck her head in to say good night, but she’d just laughed and told him that he was a growing boy and should eat as much as he wanted before she’d headed upstairs with Vic right behind her.

Now, the teen was sprawled across his bed, having trouble falling asleep. He was worn out but unable to cease the parade of graphs, functions, and mathematical equations through his brain. Justin’s hand involuntarily drifted downward and cupped his burgeoning erection through the white cotton briefs. Yes, he thought, a bit of TLC was just what he needed to relax and descend into slumber. Craving the feel of skin on skin, he pushed his briefs down to his thighs and, spitting into his palm for lubrication, began to stroke himself slowly up and down. Although he desperately wanted to plant his feet on the bed and arch up into his hand, Justin kept his legs flat to minimize his movements. He had already learned how the least wiggle or a thrust could make the bedsprings squeak loudly enough that even the neighbours would know what he was up to.

Justin’s unoccupied hand slid across his torso, his fingers tugging gently at his nipple ring. Hissing in pleasure, he tugged again while simultaneously rubbing the slit at the apex of his cock with the callused tip of his thumb. He began to emit a steady stream of moans, unaware that he was doing so, as he fisted his cock more tightly.

As his fingers glided upward once more, he imagined himself sinking into the warmest, most welcoming tunnel ever. He even thought he could hear his partner groaning appreciatively, “More, Sunshine. Give me more, Twat!”

Justin was so far gone in his fantasy that he didn’t even realize he was thinking of Brian again. Another stroke with that satisfying twist as he neared the head, and it was all over. The spent young man passed out with one hand still loosely wrapped around his cock, come drying on his belly, and a blissful smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears that the relationship between Brian and Justin is a tad stilted. You wonder why? Because they don't properly communicate! We hope that we can have a much better relationship with you, our dear readers - so let's communicate! Reviews and comments are welcome.
> 
> Also, there is a picture that goes with this chapter, so in case you are interested in seeing it, you can find it here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=5


	6. Chapter 6

Brian’s wheezing snore halted when a pudgy little hand batted at his nose and a happy voice chortled, “Ghaba.”

What was going on? There was no satisfactory reason for his latest trick to talk nonsense to him instead of sucking Brian’s cock. Brian lifted his head from what should have been an unsanitary wall in Babylon’s back room, his eyes slitting open, to espy not a trick but rather his son playing pattycake with his mouth.

“Uh?” Brian grunted. What was the deal with mornings and lesbians? Why did they have to insist that the first part of the day be devoted to quality father-son time? In spite of his pounding head, he cracked a smile when Gus patted his mouth again, bestowing a kiss in the center of the nipper’s palm. Raising his head a bit higher, he tried to ascertain what was weighing down the lower half of his body and right arm. He was certain he wouldn’t have brought a trick to the munchers’ house, but in his muzzy-headed condition couldn’t figure out who else might be lying on top of him.

It definitely wasn’t that fucking blond teenager, he thought - and just like that the previous night suddenly came back to him. Fuck, no! Surely, it couldn’t be that bulldyke lawyer on top of him. As peals of laughter assailed his ears, he belatedly noticed Lindsay standing next to the couch, supporting Gus with a hand behind the tyke’s back.

He was about to voice his displeasure with Lindsay’s outrageously inconsiderate behavior when the weight on his abdomen eased slightly and Mel croaked out, “What the fuck, Linds? What are we doing on the couch?”

“Get off me,” Brian growled, hips bucking upward as he tried to dislodge Melanie. He absolutely did not want the muff diver so close to his groin. He might catch lesbian cooties.

“Bah!” Gus announced, his hand tapping against Brian’s cheek - as if in agreement - while his blonde mother laughed harder.

Mel’s head shot up, her hair looking like a bird had nested in it, as she exclaimed, “You’re not Lindsay!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Brian snarked, beginning to feel a bit better at having the advantage for once. Waving a hand in front of his face, he complained, “You should go brush your teeth; you smell like you slept in a distillery.”

Mel muttered something about a rotten influence as she clambered off of Brian, her face reflecting her loathing for her current circumstances.

“Watch out!” Brian snarled at the lawyer, as her left hand landed perilously close to his balls.

Rolling her eyes, Melanie pushed down a little harder, supporting herself as she finally stood up. “Don’t worry, my touch didn’t turn you in a pussy.” She brushed a boozy kiss against Lindsay’s lips and, as she staggered toward the stairs, could be heard saying, “Although that would be a distinct improvement.”

Brian had just opened his gob to berate his blonde friend for leaving him in Melanie’s clutches the previous night when his face took on a grayish tinge and he gasped for air. “What the fuck?” he wheezed.

A terribly amused Lindsay opined, “Like father, like son. I suggest you change your son and then yourself.”

With a look of affront on his face at the notion that he smelled as foul as his son, Brian tried to pass Gus off to Linds so that he could stand up more easily, but the blonde shook her head and backed away. “Nope. You change him and bring him to the kitchen while I start breakfast,” Lindsay insisted.

Stomach lurching at the thought of food, Brian held Gus against his hip as he wobbled to his feet, steadying himself with a hand against the back of the sofa. The boy’s diaper squished unpleasantly under his left hand and another blast of unbearable stench assaulted his nose. Ugh!

Brian hastened up the stairs as quickly as he could, carrying Gus to his changing table, holding his breath as he removed the soiled diaper and tossed it into the Diaper Genie. As he cleaned the tyke’s bottom, he mused that there had to be a more odor absorbent diaper than the Huggies that were prominently displayed next to the changing table. Perhaps he should research brands and make sure that his son had the best diapers available, maybe even find out who that company used for their advertising. In the next moment, Brian thought he must be losing his mind. Who would want to be fucked by an ad exec who promoted diapers?

Once Brian had delivered a clean Gus to the kitchen and settled him in his highchair for Lindsay to feed, he sprinted out to his jeep. He’d glanced at his watch while he was changing his son and had been aghast to discover it was nearly seven o’clock. At the loft, he would have been able to rush through his morning routine and arrive at work on time, looking fresh and polished irrespective of his hangover. Everything was completely disrupted in Muncherville, however, with Linds constantly lumbering him with Gus. Even though he loved the little lad, Brian was having difficulty adjusting his schedule to accommodate his son on workdays.

Brian cursed as he grabbed yesterday’s shopping bags from the vehicle’s back seat. He needed time to shower, shave, take something to alleviate the pounding in his head, and iron one of his new shirts - another task that was not part of his routine, since that was one of his cleaning lady’s duties. Grumbling to himself about paying the Ukrainian girl for her services when she couldn’t even enter the loft - not that there was anything for her to clean even if she could get in - Brian hurried back up the walkway and into the house.

“Linds,” he beseeched after reaching the kitchen, dumping the bags on the table and removing the packaging from one of his new shirts, “Would you…?”

The busy mom shot Brian a distracted glance from the stove, where she was stirring something eggy in one pan and vegetables in another, cutting her friend off before he could complete his question, “I can’t help you Brian. I have to take care of Gus.”

Resigned, Brian asked, “Where is it, then?” while smiling indulgently at his happy offspring, who was babbling and banging his palms against the tray in front of him.

“Where’s what?” Lindsay replied without looking up. As if she sensed Brian’s exasperated glare, she added, “I’m not a mind-reader; I don’t know what you want.”

“The iron, Linds,” Brian sighed, “and the ironing board. I had to buy new clothes yesterday, and I can hardly wear a wrinkled shirt to work. It’s bad enough that I’m wearing the same suit, which looks anything but elegant, for the third consecutive workday.”

“Over there,” Linds pointed toward a narrow cupboard with her free hand, noting, “you could have kept your suit in better condition by taking off your jacket and slacks and putting on something else last night.”

“I’d had a fucking awful day,” Brian complained, the aroma of the eggs and veggies increasing his nausea as he set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron, “or did you forget me telling you that?”

Lindsay didn’t show any sympathy, “How did that prevent you from taking care of your suit? You must’ve known you’d need to wear it again today.”

“It’s because of that fucking blond!” Brian burst out. “I ran into him at the diner, and he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world. He’s responsible for this whole mess and he’s not even affected.”

“How can you say that?” Lindsay reproved. “Of course he’s affected by losing his home.”

“The loft wasn’t his home,” Brian seethed, “he was just bunking there temporarily.”

“Temporarily? You mean until you threw him out?” Lindsay queried in a sarcastic tone.

“You know he left the loft unlocked!” Brian snarled, “so why do you keep defending him?”

Lindsay shut off the burners and turned around to look at Brian, before replying in an excessively reasonable manner that grated on the brunet’s nerves, “I’m not defending him, and I’m not taking sides. Justin made a mistake, but it was just that - a _mistake_. He hardly did it on purpose, so why can’t you forgive him?”

“Because he doesn’t give a toss about what happened!” Brian ranted furiously, the ironing board nearly collapsing as he pressed down too heavily with the iron. Fuck, he’d almost said because the teenager wasn’t sorry. What was wrong with him? He didn’t believe in apologies or regrets.

Brian was grateful when Lindsay dropped the topic after shrugging and shaking her head at him pityingly. Neither of them uttered another word, Brian finishing up with his ironing and stalking upstairs with his shirt and his other bags to take a shower. He really hoped the dykes had some Aleve in their medicine cabinet since he didn’t want to ask where they kept it - he’d had enough of both Lindsay and Melanie for one morning.

 

Meanwhile, Justin’s morning hadn’t started off badly at all - he had woken up to his alarm clock blaring at six o’clock, grimacing at the dried come that had adhered to his belly but otherwise feeling quite refreshed by a solid night’s sleep. He’d hopped out of bed, taken a quick shower, and gotten dressed - happy with his decision to iron his shirts the previous evening - and hotfooted it down the stairs to scrounge a bite to eat for breakfast before he had to catch the bus.

Justin was surprised to find both siblings in the kitchen, having expected that Vic would still be sleeping. The redhead was admonishing her brother, who had Tuesday’s _Pittsburgh Post-Gazette_ spread out in front of himself, “Don’t forget to take your pills,” while pointing to a row of bottles lined up on the counter.

Vic peered over the top of his half-rim eyeglasses, “Quit flapping, Sis. I have HIV, not Alzheimer's.”

Both of them cackled at the absurdity of a Deb who didn’t fuss, then the redhead exclaimed, “Here’s our little ray of Sunshine, brightening our morning,” as she bestowed a lipsticky kiss on the teen’s cheek.

As Debbie attempted to wipe away the red smear, Justin mumbled, “Uh, good morning.” Taking the Special K from the cupboard, he fleetingly smiled as the cereal reminded him of that first night with Brian - which seemed eons away from their current stand-off. Justin grabbed the milk from the fridge as well as a bowl and a spoon, settling in across the table from Vic.

Right as Justin lifted the first spoonful of cereal to his mouth, the older man emitted a series of moans, teasing, “Nice sound effects from your room last night.”

Justin’s spoon plunked down into his bowl, splashing milk onto his shirt and tie while his face turned crimson. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” he mumbled, completely unconvincingly.

Vic just raised his eyebrows, waiting him out, causing the young man to nearly give in to the temptation to slide under the table. He couldn’t believe he’d been so noisy during a simple handjob. Dabbing at his tie with his napkin, the teen stammered, “I’m sorry, Vic, I didn’t mean to keep you awake.”

“Don’t listen to the old reprobate,” Debbie recommended, giving her brother a light slap to the head, “I have no doubt Vic enjoyed himself.” Shrugging, she added, “The walls in this house are so damned thin, you can’t help but hear a mouse fart in the next room. ”

Vic winked at the mortified teen, who was busily scooping up his cereal, “Heck, Sunshine, I know you’re a healthy gay boy. Thanks for reminding me of my youth.”

Rescuing the blushing lad from further discussion of his jerk-off session, Deb whisked away his dishes and offered, “Honey, would you like to take a couple slices of the chocolate cake with you for desert? You could share with Daphne.”

As he gave the warm-hearted woman a lopsided smile, Justin conceded to himself that he was becoming closer to Debbie than to his own mom. Ever since he’d admitted he was gay, Jennifer had treated him awkwardly, foregoing affectionate moments like this one. “Thanks,” he managed to choke out as he pushed away from the table, “that would be great.”

“Ah, your famous cake from a box is a hit all over again, Sis,” Vic joked with a twinkle in his eyes.

“That cake is made from an old family recipe,” Deb retorted, “handed down through the generations.”

“Decades of Betty Crocker bakers,” the older man riposted, “although I don’t recall mom ever making this particular cake.”

After accepting the Tupperware container from Debbie, Justin headed toward the front door, “Ok, bye! I have to catch my bus.”

His words overlapped Deb’s, “Shit! I’m going to be late for my shift,” the waitress abandoning her banter with Vic, grabbing her coat, and hustling out the door behind Justin before turning in the opposite direction.

When he saw the orange Port Authority Transit bus pulling into the  bus stop a couple minutes early, Justin sprinted down the block, gesticulating wildly and yelling as two other passengers boarded. “Thanks,” he gasped at the driver as he climbed on and showed his pass, before collapsing into a seat toward the back of the vehicle.

Aware he couldn’t afford to waste time before he transferred to the next PAT bus, Justin pulled out his notebook and began recreating the short story he’d nearly completed for his creative writing class - a story that was currently unreachable in his backpack on the floor of Brian’s loft. Justin, who had taken to heart the dictum that he should write what he knew, shrugged philosophically. Even if he couldn’t recall everything he’d written before, he had plenty of new material for his story about a bullied teen and was sure he could finish it quickly - which was essential, since he also needed to complete midterm projects for other classes. Head bent over his notebook, Justin’s pen flew across the page as the words poured out of him.

 

Brian strode toward his office - a good fifteen minutes later than usual - hoping he looked confident and in control. His rumpled, less-than-fresh suit and imperfectly-styled hair grated on his nerves and were definitely undermining his self-confidence. When he approached Cynthia’s desk, saw a Starbucks cup waiting on the corner of her desk, and received an affirmative nod that the triple-shot latte was for him, he could have kissed his assistant. Brian’s gratitude withered, however, when he saw the astonishment with which the exquisitely coiffed and attired blonde was viewing him. “What?” he barked, glancing down to make sure he hadn’t missed a spot of Gus’ spit-up.

Cynthia hastily rearranged her features into a neutral expression, “I’m sure you did your best with what you had available, Brian,” she soothed him. “You just look a bit like you were rode hard and put away wet.”

The ad exec was astonished to have his assistant describe him so colloquially. Fuck, he must really look bad for Cynthia to use such an inelegant turn of phrase. Muttering about always being the one who busted the bronc rather than the other way round, Brian snatched the cup with the white-on-green logo and turned away from Cynthia in a huff.

Following him into the office with folders in her hand, Cynthia acerbically speculated, “I take it you still haven’t spoken with Justin or, if you did, the conversation didn’t go well.”

“Didn’t we have this discussion just yesterday?” Brian growled. “Is there a good reason for you to sound like a broken record first thing in the morning?”

With an offended expression reminiscent of the previous day, Cynthia dropped the stack of files on Brian’s desk, grabbed the Starbucks cup out of his hand, and marched out of the office.

“Fucking blondes in cahoots with each other,” Brian sighed as he watched Cynthia - and his latte - disappear from sight. First Lindsay and now his secretary. He could have used a bit of sympathy this morning, but instead he got nagging, badgering, and harassment.

Later that morning, Brian rubbed his hand across his face as he put away the last page of the client’s contract. _Antoinette’s_ was a quickly growing bakery that specialised in birthday and wedding cakes and was hoping to grow across the state border and open a shop in New York. The principle of the advertisement was simple and funny - referencing Marie Antoinette’s famous quote about cake - which Brian liked, but it assumed a certain level of knowledge of historical bon mot, which Brian didn’t like. One of the cardinal rules of advertising - right next to ‘sex sells’ - was that people were stupid and you had to hand feed them information. If there was something Brian hated more than fags trying to mold themselves into a heteronormative monogamous lifestyle, it was having to explain a joke. If you didn’t have the mental capability to get it on your own, you didn’t deserve to laugh.

The brunet threw one last glance at the contract, before slipping it into the appropriate folder along with a few rough drafts he had come up with in the past hour. The words ‘ _Qu’ils mangent de la brioche_ ’ were taunting him from one of the papers as he closed the folder. Brian checked his watch and, noticing he still had a bit of time before he had to be in a meeting with Ryder, he figured he’d go and check up on the art department.

He threw on his suit jacket, which he had draped over the back of his chair when he’d first sat down that morning, and went to the door. When he opened it, he nearly had a heart attack as he almost ran into one of the sales representatives, his hand poised to knock.

“You want me to close the door again, so you can finish knocking?” Brian asked when he had regained his composure.

The man, who Brian thought to be called Thomas, quickly dropped his hand, giving Brian an embarrassed smile. “No, I… thank you,” he stammered out, before asking, “You were going somewhere?”

The ad executive quirked an eyebrow at the question. “What gave me away?” he retorted.

Thomas shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous. I was wondering if I could talk to you?”

Brian checked his watch again. He still had ten minutes until he had to be in Ryder’s office, so he decided to humour the man. “Sure,” he agreed, “come on in.”

He motioned for the other man to seat himself in one of the chairs in front of his desk, while he sat back down behind it. “What can I do for you, Mr Thomas?” he queried.

“Well, sir,” the sales representative began, “I managed to secure this account over the weekend - eh, Kofola, it’s a European fizzy drink - and they’re asking for a Christmas ad that would help them break through on the US market.”

Brian nodded. He was aware of which one Thomas was talking about; it had landed on his desk on Monday and he had already come up with a vague idea for the ad since then. “I know the one,” he acknowledged. “Is there something I should know?”

“No, I mean, there’s no problem or anything,” the man assured him, “I was just wondering if I could share my idea for the ad with you.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. Well, this was certainly interesting. It wasn’t all that rare for junior employees to suggest an idea or two to one of the other account executives, but it was certainly unusual for someone to have the bottle to pitch an idea to him - Brian wasn’t exactly known for his amiability. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, more curious than actually interested.

Thomas leaned forward, clearly excited to share his thoughts. “Ok, so my idea was to show a bottle of Kofola underneath a Christmas tree, a bow around its neck and, like, show several different Christmas trees in different homes with the bottle underneath.” The sales rep paused, trying to build tension, before rambling on, “And then there’s one tree that doesn’t have any presents yet and suddenly you see Santa Claus putting the bottle underneath the tree… and maybe winking into the camera… and, what do you think?”

Brian cottoned on immediately, nodding. “And perhaps show the Santa drinking from the bottle at the end?”

Thomas’ eyes brightened. “Yes! That’s exactly what I imagined.”

Brian snorted. “Of course you did, Coca-Cola,” he snarked and, ignoring the startled squawk from the other man, continued, “you literally just nicked the annual Christmas ad from Coca-Cola. Do you want us to get sued?”

“But that’s completely different!” protested Thomas, “I’ve never seen Coca-Cola do something like that. They always have that gaudy truck lighting up with Christmas lights.”

Brian sighed. “It’s the thought behind it - they have Santa giving out coke bottles as Christmas presents,” he explained, “You can’t use it.”

“But, Mr Kinney-”

“Thank you for your effort, Mr Thomas,” Brian interrupted him forcefully, standing up, “but I think I’ll use my own ideas for the Kofola campaign.”

The other man looked taken aback as he also stood up. “Of course, sir,” he conceded, “I’m sorry.”

Brian nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line in annoyance. “You can go,” he said, offering Thomas an outstretched hand.

They shook hands, but when Brian went to pull back, Thomas held on. The ad exec lifted his eyebrows in question.

“I was hoping I could do something else for you, sir?” the other man offered, voice suddenly thick. “We could work on the campaign together.”

Brian tried to let go again. “I think I have everything under control here,” he assured the man.

Thomas stepped closer, running his other hand up Brian’s arm, before tugging at his lapel softly. “Are you sure? I can be very… helpful,” he flirted.

Under any other circumstances, Brian would have immediately taken him up on it - he was sex-deprived and the other man wasn’t exactly bad-looking - but after hearing the delusional idea he had tried to pitch to him, he wasn’t interested. “I’m sure you can,” he said, finally managing to liberate his hostage-appendage, “but I think I can take care of _that_ myself too.”

“Brian-”

“You can go now, Mr Thomas,” Brian repeated forcefully, “and we’ll forget about this.” He was astounded by the other man’s brazenness, though he couldn’t help but admire it a little too. Brian’s own direct approach wasn’t much different when he was wooing an attractive client.

The other man scowled, his sultry and flirtatious smile morphing into an ugly curl of the lips. “I don’t think so, Mr Kinney,” he countered, “you might want to reconsider letting me work with you.”

Brian was amused. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it would be very easy for me to leave this office now and go to Mr Ryder to tell him what had just happened here.”

Brian was a little confused by Thomas’ calm attitude. “You mean tell him you came onto me?”

The younger man laughed. “Of course not; don’t you remember what happened? I asked for an opportunity to help you with a campaign and you agreed - under one condition, that I sleep with you.”

“That’s ridiculous!” fumed Brian, removing the man’s fingers from his lapel and taking a couple steps back.

“Oh really?” taunted Thomas, “you sleep with anyone and everyone - no one will be surprised if I file a sexual harassment suit against you.”

Brian felt himself break out in cold sweat. He had to admit that the sales representative was right; no one would believe him if Thomas filed the lawsuit. He was well known for sleeping with his clients, as well as some of his employees - he had never had to coerce anyone though; men were usually falling all over themselves to knock him off. “What do you want?” he asked.

The other man smiled at him. “I want to work on the Kofola account with you and I want credit for the idea.”

Brian was angry. “Are you having a laugh? I told you we can’t use your idea.”

Thomas shrugged. “Then give me credit for yours; I don’t care.”

“You have some neck,” Brian commented, in awe of the sales representative’s daring, “but I can’t let you do that.”

“No?” the man taunted him again, “do you really want to end up banged up? I can go to Ryder right now, if you want.”

Both men were startled by a third voice joining the conversation, “That won’t be necessary, Kip. I think I’ve heard enough.”

Brian turned to the door to his office where, unnoticed by either man, stood Marty Ryder in all his underwhelming glory. The bearded man was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. Brian gave him an unsure look. “Boss,” he said, “I don’t know what you heard, but-”

“I assure you, Brian, that I’ve heard enough to come to the correct conclusions. Mr Thomas will have a lot of explaining to do.”

The ad executive breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring Kip’s sputtering. “Thank fucking god,” he swore, made up to see Marty for once. “What are you even doing here?” he asked his boss.

Marty shrugged, giving Brian a look. “You were late for our meeting, so I came to see what had held you back. I’m glad I did.”

“Well that makes two of us,” muttered Brian, shuffling back over to his chair and flopping down on it with a grimace. He watched in disbelief as Marty led an almost catatonic Kip Thomas out of his office. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the nightmare that he had just barely escaped; Thomas might’ve really ruined his whole life with just a few words. It didn’t even matter that the bloke might not have been able to prove anything - his reputation would’ve suffered a deadly blow anyway, and it was all because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Sure, he hadn’t even touched Kip, but his reputation didn’t exactly give him credibility. He might have to change that...

 

Brian was in deep thought when Cynthia entered his office, just moments after Ryder’s departure with Thomas in tow. “Brian,” she inquired tentatively, “are you okay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Brian replied, rubbing a hand over his face, still shaken by his encounter with Kip.

“What happened? Why was Ryder practically dragging Thomas out of here by his ear as I returned to my desk?” Cynthia queried, the concern evident in her voice.

Maybe if he described what had occurred, he could determine how to proceed, Brian figured and so he then related how Thomas had shown up at the office and how the man had ultimately threatened to file a lawsuit if the ad exec didn’t give in to the junior sales rep’s demands to work with Brian on the Kofola account.

After he finished his recount, Cynthia was on a roll. Brian could almost see the steam coming out of the blonde’s ears as she paced back and forth in front of his desk, ranting about ingrate employees trying to make their way up the corporate ladder through such unethical methods. From her tirade, Brian gathered that Kip had only been hired because Ryder’s CFO was a good buddy of Thomas’ daddy. How or why his assistant had acquired this information, Brian had no clue.

“Devious little bounder,” Cynthia raged, “probably thought he’d be offered your job after he filed that lawsuit. Coca-Cola,” she snorted derisively, having adopted Brian’s snide nickname for the sleazy employee, “would probably try to sell ice to Eskimos.”

Brian felt somewhat mollified as he watched his whirling dervish of a secretary rant on his behalf; it felt good to have this sort of righteous anger on his side for once.

The blonde abruptly stopped pacing, turned to her boss, and advised, “You’d best write a statement immediately, Brian, as long as it’s still fresh in your mind. Ryder may not have been present for Thomas’ entire entrapment spiel, and you need to make sure the pipsqueak doesn’t somehow finagle a way to stay with the agency.”

Considering that to be a sound recommendation, Brian immediately opened a document on his computer and started typing. “I’d better lawyer up,” he asserted, “in fact, I’m going to consult with a friend before I have Ryder’s legal department look this over.”

“Good idea,” Cynthia encouraged, “and I’ll go find out what gossip might be making the rounds. We’ll stop that slimy git in his tracks.” Turning on her heel, the woman on a mission stormed out of the office.

Brian typed with one hand while he pulled out his Nokia cell phone to give Lindsay a call. He couldn’t remember the name of Mel’s firm - he’d never been interested enough to learn it - or he’d have called information instead of bothering his friend. When she answered with a distracted but friendly ‘Hello?’ Brian spoke, “Hey, Linds, can you give me Mel’s number at her office?”

“What? Why would you need to call Melanie?” Lindsay queried in surprise, a hint of alarm in her tone. “Hold on, let me set Gus down.”

Brian heard rustling noises and Lindsay cooing to Gus, “That’s your daddy on the phone. We’ll go for a walk in the park as soon as I finish talking to him, okay, Sweetie Pie?”

Well, at least she wasn’t baby-talking, Brian mused, although he wished she’d ditch the cutesy names. Impatiently waiting for her to pick up the phone again, Brian balanced his cell between his ear and his shoulder, pecking away at the computer keys some more.

“Why did you say you needed Mel’s number?” Lindsay’s repeated question resonated loudly in his ear before she astutely probed, “Is something wrong, Brian?”

As insouciantly as possible, Brian dismissed her concern, “Our legal department wants an outside opinion on a contractual issue, so I said I’d call a friend who’s a partner in a local firm.” In a dry voice, he drawled, “Mel’s law office would like to have our business, I assume.”

There was a pause during which Brian pictured Lindsay holding the phone away from her ear and staring at it quizzically. He would have enjoyed teasing his blonde friend if he hadn’t wanted to sort the Kip business as quickly as possible.

“I’m… impressed that you’d think of Melanie,” Linds finally resumed speaking, “That’s very mature of you, Brian.”

The ad man rolled his eyes, biting down on his lower lip to keep from making a remark that would undoubtedly undo Linds’ assessment of his maturity. He was rewarded when, a few seconds later, Linds offered, “Ok, I’ll give you the number, Bri. Have you got a paper?”

The brunet hmmed, then typed the number onto his computer screen as she dictated it to him. “Thanks, Linds,” he said when he had it, before finishing the call with a simple, “Later.”

After taking a deep breath to steel himself, Brian immediately called Mel. If he thought about it for too long, he would never contact the bulldyke, who was almost certain to lecture him on his immoral behaviour.

“Melanie Marcus,” a brisk, no-nonsense voice issued from the cellphone after only two rings.

Brian, tongue-tied, didn’t utter a word.

“Hello?” the lawyer inquired, “who is this? I’m hanging up if you don’t stop with the heavy breathing and tell me why you’re calling.”

Fuck. Melanie thought this was a crank call. “Um,” Brian eked out, berating himself for sounding like a moron. Clearing his throat, he attempted to sound like his usual suave self, “Mel, it’s Brian. Are you available to consult on an issue that has arisen here at Ryder?” Brian’s shoulders slumped in relief; that had sounded professional and he’d gotten it out without implicating himself.

“Brian?” Melanie stated in amazement before her voice turned suspicious, “What kind of trouble are you in that you’re contacting me?”

Dammit, the lesbian legal eagle was too sharp by half and, unfortunately, knew Brian too well. The brunet got nervous again. “Um, I’m not sure what’s going to come of it,” he managed to get out, “but I think I might be sued for sexual harassment.”

Melanie snorted into the receiver, sounding unamused. “You’re joking me,” she grumbled, “what happened?”

Brian sighed, rubbing his hand across his face again. “One of the sales representatives tried to seduce me in my office in exchange for a leg up in the company,” he explained. “When I refused him, he threatened to file a sexual harassment suit against me.”

The lesbian hummed. “And you didn’t sleep with him, correct? Not even before today?”

“Never,” Brian assured her.

Melanie hummed again, clicking something on her computer. “Now, I’m afraid to ask this, because it’s a longshot... but were there any witnesses by any chance?”

It was at this point that the enormity of the situation finally dawned on Brian. Sure, he had known that Thomas could cause him some serious trouble, but actually speaking to a lawyer made things all the more clear to him. This whole affair could cause a lot of aggro and had the potential to ruin his whole career, if not properly handled. Had Marty not come in when he did, Brian would likely be up to his knees in shit just about now.

“Brian?” came an impatient voice from the receiver.

“Yeah,” Brian paused to clear his throat, “I actually do. My boss came in without either me or Thomas noticing and earwigged the whole thing - or at least enough to know that I wasn’t the one in the wrong.”

Melanie chuckled. “Only you, Brian. Only you would tempt fate as much as you do and then, instead of ending up burning on the pyre, you get help sent down straight from the heavens.”

The ad executive rolled his eyes - allowing himself the unprofessional action, since no one was about to witness it - and snarked back, “I doubt heaven had much to do with it; I was bound to catch a break.”

“Undoubtedly,” noted the lawyer absentmindedly, typing something down again, “I can squeeze you in at three, if you’ve got the time. We’ll go over your statement and have it notarized, then discuss any following actions.”

“Actions like what?” Brian fidgeted in his chair, irked that Thomas might somehow cause further problems for him at the agency.

“Like what we do, if he goes through with the suit. Do we want to counter sue? Do we go to the police and report him for attempted extortion?”

Shit. How long was this thing going to drag on for? It already seemed like it’d been weeks, even though it had only been an hour ago that Thomas had tried to seduce his way to a promotion. “What do you need from me, then, before we meet?” the perturbed adman inquired.

“Your finished written statement,” Mel replied promptly, “which we’ll review, amend if necessary, and then notarize.”

“Writing it as we speak,” Brian muttered.

“Better yet, why don’t you email it to me as an attachment before you head over here?” Melanie suggested, “so we can easily make any changes we need to.”

Moving the cursor to the top of the document where he’d entered Melanie’s office number, Brian asked, “Okay, what’s your email address?”

“Just a moment,” Melanie requested, and Brian could hear her say to someone, “tell the McQueens I’ll be right with them.”

Brian snorted at the name, imagining Mel representing two colorful drag queens who were in the midst of a hotly-contested breakup, fighting over custody of their mink coats. He imagined the little twat would appreciate the thought once he told him about it when he got home that evening… he should also find out if the kid had ever watched the uber-cool Steve McQueen in one of his classic films.

Mel’s voice snapped Brian back to reality. Not only could he not go home right now, he’d also evicted the blond brat responsible for that circumstance. Fucking teen.

Reeling off her email address, mmarcus@jkl.com, Mel confirmed, “I’ll see you at three,” and hung up.

Someone had been on the ball with that easy-to-remember domain name, Brian reflected as he read the address, although the association between lawyers and jackals was rather unfortunate.

Brian detailed everything that had happened from the moment Thomas had approached him outside his office until Ryder had escorted the man away and, racking his brains, he also listed every instance when he could recall seeing the man - in the break room, at a meeting, or on the sidewalk in front of the agency. Thankfully, the man was a junior employee, so there hadn’t been much call for Brian to interact with him.

 

After emailing the attachment to the bulldyke lawyer, printing out two copies of his statement, and shutting down his computer, Brian slipped into his jacket and picked up his briefcase. He had one Gucci-shod foot outside his office when he realized he didn’t know where he was headed, much less the name of Melanie’s firm. Goddammit, the ad exec fumed to himself, he’d never been this frazzled and disorganized before that careless blond brat had left the loft unlocked for thieves to remove all his possessions. Between his makeshift living arrangements and now the Thomas affair, it seemed nothing was at his fingertips as it should be.

There was no way he was going to chance Melanie picking up if he called her direct line; he’d look like a right prat if he had to ask her the name of her firm. Exhaling in relief when he noticed Cynthia at her computer, he commanded, “I need you to look up an email address and tell me the location for a ‘JKL’ law firm.” With that Brian rattled off, “‘mmarcus@jkl.com’. Quickly, please. I need to be there twenty minutes from now.”

His secretary began searching the Internet, muttering about not being able to locate that email address. Within a few minutes, though, she exclaimed, “That’s it! Jacobs, Knox, and Lopez at 143 Strawberry Way.”

Fortunately, Brian had been correct in his assumption that JKL, like Ryder, was in the downtown business district, and he arrived with a few minutes to spare. Melanie was the consummate professional when she greeted Brian in the lobby with a handshake and then escorted him to to her office.

Once they were seated on either side of her desk, Melanie bluntly prefaced his options with, “I’ve reviewed your statement and, I must say, screwing anything that moves might work in your favor, for once. You wouldn’t have to abuse your position in order to get laid, which is what happens in the vast majority of workplace sexual harassment cases.”

“Really? The fuck defense?” Brian protested with a bitter chuckle, “sans the fuck.” At least with the bratty teen, there’d been plenty of fucks, and Brian had never had to promise the lad anything. Brian once more tried to wipe his mind clean of the invading blond, the one with whom fucking had somehow become synonymous.

“Cut the crap, Brian,” the bulldyke advised. “It’s lucky for you that the man didn’t actually manage to seduce you first and _then_ try to coerce you. You probably would have fucked him, and then Thomas would have better grounds for a lawsuit.”

“Aren’t you suggesting he could file a lawsuit anyway - and possibly win?” a discouraged Brian queried, slumping back into his chair.

“We can’t predict what Thomas will do and, until he makes the first move, our options are limited. However,” Mel recommended, “we can report him for attempted extortion, with your notarized statement as documentation. If we preempt Thomas before he decides what to do, that lends us more credibility.”

“Christ. The Stud of Liberty Avenue brought low by a pipsqueak of a sales representative,” Brian mourned, “just wait till word of this spreads.”

“Brian, your career could be on the line,” Melanie rebuked. “That’s a lot more important that your reputation as an unassailable asshole.”

The tense atmosphere lightened a little when they both laughed wryly, acknowledging that neither of them liked to be bested.

“We could also sue Thomas for sexual harassment,” Mel explained, “although I advise against that, since we would have to prove unwelcome conduct, which is difficult. It would also cost a lot of money, and if Thomas ultimately elects not to sue, it would cause unnecessary trouble, when the whole affair could be easily sorted within Ryder.”

“If we proceed with reporting Thomas, what comes next?” Brian prodded.

“Then it’s a waiting game,” Melanie replied, “to see what Thomas does next.” Looking earnestly at Brian, she then recommended, “It’s also better if you don’t go to Ryder’s legal department for assistance in the interim.”

One eyebrow quirking upward, Brian probed, “Whyever not? Aren’t they meant to be a resource for the employees?”

“Theoretically, yes. But in reality, they’ll have the company’s best interests in mind, not yours,” Melanie clarified. “That makes your forethought in seeking independent counsel particularly commendable.”

Brian hmmed noncommittally, since he’d really only thought it smart to have as much legal representation as possible - he had intended to use Melanie’s services on top of Ryder’s legal department.

“You should also be aware of the possibility that Thomas may pretend to be heterosexsual as his defence,” Melanie cautioned, “stipulating that he was unsure how to refuse your advances."

“Why the fuck would he do that? No self-respecting fag would ever go along with such a harebrained idea,” Brian exclaimed in bafflement.

“That’s what I would advise him to do if he were my client,” Melanie reasoned, “it would likely garner him a great deal of sympathy.”

When he left Melanie’s office shortly thereafter, a copy of his notarized statement in his briefcase, Brian’s head was spinning. He was taking all the steps he could to protect himself, but he didn’t know if it would be enough. Since it was almost five o’clock, there was little point in heading back to the office, so he turned the jeep toward Liberty Avenue and the sanctuary of Debbie’s diner.

 

Justin groaned to himself as he returned from depositing dirty dishes in the kitchen and discovered a petulant-looking Michael standing in front of the cash register. He’d survived another day at St. James and another hour of detention, which had been alternately dull and tense. Bauer had hovered over the students’ desks as they worked on their essays, presumably trying to provoke an outburst which would ensure the miscreant’s tenure in detention for the rest of the semester. None of the four had buckled under the pressure, but Justin worried about what tactic Bauer would employ on the morrow.

And now on top of that, he had to deal with Michael. Pasting a polite smile on his face, he approached the older man, “What can I get for you, Michael?”

“Yourself,” Michael answered shortly.

“Pardon me?” Justin answered, more than a bit taken aback and struggling to maintain a neutral expression.

“Uh?” Michael had apparently lost track of what he wanted.

Patience, Justin counseled himself, just have patience. “I asked what I could get for you Michael,” he reminded the other man.

“I already told you,” Michael testily asserted.

Justin couldn’t remember the last time he’d participated in such an inane conversation. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of many ways to rephrase such a basic question. “Michael, I’m right here. What do you need?” he gritted out.

That apparently jolted Michael out of his fugue. He leaned forward, wagging his index finger in Justin’s face, and launched into a tirade. “Listen, you . . . you trespasser,” the older man demanded, “You’d better be careful with my belongings. All of my superhero memorabilia took years to collect. It’s priceless! My mother may have taken you in out of the goodness of her heart - when you really should be out on the street with the other trash - but she’ll throw you out in a heartbeat if you damage any of my stuff.”

The threat of again losing his home cut too close to the bone, making Justin vibrate with fear and anger combined. Stepping back a pace so that Michael wouldn’t poke him in the eye with his errant finger, he countered in an even voice, “If your possessions are so precious, why are they at your mom’s instead of in the apartment you share with Emmett? Didn’t you move out like years ago?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Michael raised his voice. “Those are valuable items. I can’t take the chance that a visitor might wreck something.”

“Why would any of your friends fuck with your stuff?” Justin asked in bewilderment.

“I’m not worried about my friends,” Michael belligerently justified, “it’s tricks like you that are the problem.”

Justin, who’d had more than enough of Michael’s insults for the afternoon, yawned as if utterly unaffected and then skewered his opponent, “Wow. Your tricks must be really bored if they have nothing better to do than peruse your comic strip keepsakes.”

Michael gaped at Justin, unable to come up with a suitable retort.

“C’mon, Michael,” Justin urged, “what’s the real story? I get that you don’t want me in your old room, but I’m not going anywhere. If you’re so worried about me touching your belongings, move them to your apartment.”

Looking down, Michael scuffed at the floor with his shoes, shamefacedly admitting in a much quieter tone, “Em refuses to have any more of my comic book decor at our place, says we have too much of it already.”

Justin felt a reluctant surge of sympathy. In spite of his devotion to them, guileless Michael didn’t quite fit in with his friends. Compassionately, he offered, “Michael, I won’t wear your clothing; I won’t play with your superhero miniatures; and I’ll regularly launder your Captain Astro bed linens. Okay?”

A suspicious glare greeted his conciliatory efforts. “You’d better keep your grubby hands off of my things, Blondie. I’ll be watching you,” Michael blustered before stomping out of the diner.

Wishing that were the last he’d see of the man, Justin sighed. He’d have to keep trying to get along, however, since that was the least he could do for Debbie. For Brian, too, since the man was his best friend, although that wouldn’t matter if Brian persisted in shafting Justin.

As the early dinner crowd began to stream into the diner, Deb scurried through the door, returning from her regular afternoon break. “Time to feed the hungry hordes, Sunshine,” she called out cheerfully.

Justin grinned at her, grateful that she hadn’t seen Michael vanishing down the street. He couldn’t lie to his surrogate mother, and it would have been difficult to cast his encounter with Michael in a positive light. The two of them started taking orders and delivering meals, falling into the easy rhythm of working together they’d had from Justin’s first day as a busboy.

 

His head pounding and his brow creased in worry, Brian strode into the diner earlier than usual in search of caffeine, hoping that would both ease his headache and enable him to think clearly. With the Thomas affair exacerbating his early morning hangover, today closely rivalled Saturday’s burglary for making a mess of Brian’s life. He’d just left Melanie’s office, after going over everything in gruelling detail, the dyke lawyer having freed herself up for two hours after his call, and he was exhausted.

When he saw a mop of blond hair heading in his direction from the back of the eatery, the advertising executive winced. Even in the midst of consulting with Melanie, first on the phone and then in person at her law office, the blond teen hadn’t been far from his thoughts. If he found out what had happened, would the teen think Brian had brought the situation with Kip onto himself? Mr. Public Service Announcement had actually warned him to be careful a couple of times when he’d been high as a kite and left Babylon with yet another nameless trick.

Brian endeavored to convince himself that this wasn’t at all the same thing - the incident had happened in the workplace, and he hadn’t issued any kind of invitation to Thomas. He could certainly attest that there been no pleasure involved, just a lot of bullshit. He suspected that Justin would view it differently, much like Melanie, who had looked at him skeptically even as she had agreed to represent him.

Brian rubbed his forehead, blatantly looking away as Justin neared, but nevertheless experienced a pang of disappointment when Justin didn’t address him at all, instead vanishing into the kitchen.

Screw him then, he thought, not like he actually wanted to talk to the brat. It just would’ve been nice of him to at least acknowledge the person who had given him a roof over his head when he had nowhere else to go. Ungrateful little muppet.

Brian seated himself at the bar, absentmindedly picking up a menu and fidgeting on the barstool. There was this thing about barstools - no matter how narrow your behind was, you always felt like one of your arsecheeks was hanging off. Stuffing your face while sitting on one also didn’t exactly help. Brian wasn’t sure if he even wanted to eat anyroad, but knew that since he had already stepped inside the diner, Debbie wouldn’t let him out again without feeding him.

And speaking of the devil. “Brian!” the redhead greeted him cheerfully, “What’s it gonna be?”

Brian cleared his throat. “What have you got?” he asked to buy himself some time. He wasn’t very successful, however, because Debbie just raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly at the daily menu chalkboard behind her. “Right,” he said, “I’ll have the avocado sarnie then. Can you make it whole wheat bread?”

“Of course,” the waitress assured him, “I wouldn’t even dream of giving you anything else.” The matron smiled, then turned around to go and relay Brian’s order to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Brian returned to his not-moping, silently contemplating his situation. He still wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do about Kip Thomas, but he did feel a little better after talking with Melanie - she had at least given him options as to what steps he could take. The idea of suing Thomas for sexual harassment wasn’t exactly enticing to Brian, what with all the unwanted publicity that could possibly be avoided and all the money it would cost him. Reporting the little weasel to the police did have some interest, though; it wouldn’t make Brian look like an incompetent nincompoop and it wouldn’t cost him a penny either.

He was so absorbed in contemplating his fate that he didn’t notice Debbie returning until a plate of avocado sandwiches landed right underneath his nose.

“Ok, so what’s wrong?” Debbie questioned, leaning over the counter to look Brian in the eye. “You’ve been sat here moping for the past ten minutes.”

The brunet scoffed. “I don’t mope, Debs,” he denied, “I’m just deep in thought.”

“Right,” his surrogate mother nodded, her gaze still suspicious. “What about?”

He shrugged, “Just work stuff.”

Now it was Debbie’s turn to scoff. “Oh, don’t be boring. I know you, Brian, and I can tell when something’s bothering you.”

Still, Brian refused to bite. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Debs, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Debbie sighed, crossing her arms over her considerable chest. “I’m not leaving here until you spill it, lad,” she threatened.

Before Brian could come up with another rebuttal, a loud voice came from the kitchen, “I’ve got number three ready!” causing Debbie to falter. Raising his eyebrows, Brian just decided to wait her out. She was stubborn, but not stubborn enough to ignore another two shouts coming from the back. Brian watched her go with a look of amusement on his face.

Just then, Brian felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as someone passed behind him - no prizes for guessing who. Deciding to ignore Justin’s presence, Brian tucked into his food. He chewed slowly and carefully, not actually enjoying the taste. For some reason, the avocado was too bland and the bread tasted sour.

“Something not right with the food?” asked Debbie, having just returned from serving a table of hunks at the back of the diner, “You look like you’re eating donkey shit, the way your face is.”

Brian glared at her. “You should fire the cook,” he advised snidely, “or at least dock his wages. The avocado’s completely flavourless and the bread is old or something.”

Debbie gave him an offended look. “There’s nothing wrong with the sarnie,” she insisted. “I can’t say the same thing about you though. Seriously, what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

Brian sighed resignedly, pushing his plate away. He looked around, checking that no blonds were earwigging his conversation with Debbie, before leaning closer to the woman. “I might be getting sued for sexual harassment,” he said in a hushed voice, internally cursing at how many times he had found himself saying those words today.

Debbie gaped at him, at a loss for words for once.

“Now, don’t get all lecturing on me,” he hastily added, “I’m completely innocent in all of this. The bloke came on to me in hopes of getting a leg up and when I refused, he started threatening me with a harassment suit.”

“That bastard!” exclaimed an incensed Debbie, the red curls on her head twitching angrily.

Brian immediately shushed her. “Shhh!” he hissed, “not so loud.”

She held up her hands in the universal gesture of surrender, mouthing ‘sorry’ with a genuinely contrite expression on her face.

Brian shook his head with a pained sigh. “Thankfully,” he continued after he once again made sure no one was listening in on their discussion, “my boss came in at exactly the right time and can vouch for me. It could still turn out to be very unpleasant for me though; my career is at stake.”

Debbie gave him a fond look, squeezing his hand forcefully. “You’ll be fine, Brian,” she assured him. “I know you and I know that you always manage to spin it so that you come on top.”

The brunet let out an unamused chuckle. “Your blind faith in me is astonishing, Debs, but I can’t exactly spin this in my favour. It’s going to look bad no matter what I do.”

“But why?” questioned the redhead, fire back in her voice. “You did nothing wrong!”

Brian shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe not, but I am known to sleep around constantly - that doesn’t exactly lend me much credibility.”

Debbie gave him a contemplative look. “Well,” she drawled out, and Brian knew immediately that he wasn’t going to like whatever she was about to say, “maybe this has been a bit of a blessing in disguise then.”

The ad executive couldn’t believe his ears. “You what?”

The waitress shrugged. “Maybe this was a wake-up call, Brian. Think about it - this could’ve been a lot worse had your boss not been able to vouch for you. Don’t you think it’s time you started thinking with your head instead of your dick?”

“Aaand, I’m out,” announced Brian, sliding abruptly down from his barstool and slapping a tenner down on the bar. He scowled at his surrogate mother. “I hope you know you were no help at all,” he told her, trying to sound like he meant it.

Debbie just have him a cheeky smile, though he could still see a flash of righteous anger in her eyes, and waved him off as he booked it out of the diner.

 

Justin tromped into Deb’s house and headed straight for the refrigerator, where he grabbed a bottle of beer. For the first time since he’d started working at the diner, his shift had seemed interminable. He’d dealt with Michael’s complaints easily enough and the man had finally taken his stroppy attitude elsewhere, but then a visibly upset Brian had entered the diner.

As he leaned against the kitchen counter, guzzling his beer, the teen still wasn’t sure what to make of Brian’s distraught appearance - the brunet wasn’t one for openly showing his emotions. Torn between his desire to ask Brian what was wrong and his anger over the way Brian continued to reject him, Justin hadn’t responded to the brunet’s latest rebuff and had instead gone into the kitchen in search of Debbie. Why he still cared enough to try and help, Justin wasn’t certain, but he’d hoped the motherly woman might soothe Brian’s distress.

Grabbing a second beer and opening it, the teen tossed the first bottle into the recycle bin. Although Justin was already feeling a little woozy - he didn’t normally chug lager so quickly - he was determined to drown all thoughts of his ex-lover in a pint of gold. The young man was heartily sick of the way Brian kept giving him the cold shoulder. He had seen Debbie talking with the dispirited brunet at the diner but didn’t know what they had discussed. Both Justin and Debbie had been too busy serving customers to stop and chat about it after Brian had left and before the redhead’s shift had ended.

Justin was recalled to the present by the escalating voices coming from the living room, Deb mentioning Brian’s name and ranting, “It’s just not right what that fucking asshole is doing!”

Justin had been peripherally aware of the conversation between the siblings but hadn’t paid any attention to it until now. His curiosity piqued, he headed in the direction of the racket, slouching in the doorway as he waited for further particulars. He wondered if Debbie had been so heatedly referring to Brian - she did often fondly call him ‘asshole’ after all - however, if she was indeed talking about her adoptive son, she didn’t sound happy with him right now.

He realized they were talking about someone else when Vic bitingly remarked, “So that snake, whatshisname - Thomas - might actually get away with that kind of underhanded behavior?”

“It sounds to me like Brian’s the one who’s going to suffer in all of this, not that Thomas character, even though the man came on to him.” Debbie reported as she agitatedly paced to and fro.

“Brian’s too professional to ever sexually coerce an employee,” Vic emphatically declared. “Ryder must know that after all of Brian’s years with the firm, especially since he caught that slimy worm in the midst of his manipulations.”

Whatever had happened, it must have gone down at Brian’s workplace, Justin surmised. Had Brian slept with another Ryder employee? That would be just like him, he thought bitterly.

Deb interrupted his silent ruminations, “It’s a good thing he didn’t sleep with that weasel. I bet Ryder would crack down hard on Brian at the threat of a gay sex scandal. Everything always sounds worse once you label it ‘gay’, it seems.”

So it had been some kind of false accusation, Justin guessed. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal if the ever-fortunate Brian had escaped unscathed.

Before Vic could respond to his sister, Justin lurched into the room, startling the two siblings. Gesturing wildly with the bottle of beer, the teen contended, “Brian’s fucking lucky he didn’t catch something worse than a bad case of a lying employee. I mean, shit, he nails everything that moves, both at the office and away from it.”

Taking umbrage at that insensitive remark, Vic objected, “You think that because Brian likes to have fun, he deserves to be slapped with a lawsuit? Then you must also believe I deserved to get Aids; after all, I fooled around too before I was diagnosed with HIV.”

“Since when are you such a saint, Sunshine?” Debbie accused, glaring at Justin and nodding fiercely in agreement with her brother.

Justin blanched at Vic and Deb’s censure. “Shit, no!” he backpedaled, “sorry, I didn’t mean that at all.” Slumping down on the couch next to Vic, he turned beseeching blue eyes on the siblings, “I know that everyone has the right to fuck who they want and when they want, although no one should get hurt in the process.”

“Why’d you act like Brian was in the wrong, then, kid?” Vic challenged, not yet mollified by Justin’s apology.

“No good reason,” the teen replied, “I’m really sorry; I shouldn’t have taken out my bad mood on you.” Hanging his head, he muttered disconsolately, “I just want Brian to finally forgive me. I’d never actually want anything bad to happen to him.”

“Give him time,” a pacified Vic advised, placing a comforting hand on the lad’s shoulder, “he’s usually quick to forgive his friends.”

Debbie chimed in, “That’s right. Don’t give up, Sunshine. I’m proud of you for your plan to repay Brian for his burgled goods. You’ll see; he’ll come around.

Vic nudged Justin’s ankle with his sock-covered foot, “Maybe that’s enough beer for tonight, huh?”

“Yeah,” a sheepish Justin concurred, “didn’t make things the slightest bit better.” Rising from the sofa, he carried the half-empty bottle to the kitchen, dumped the remainder in the sink, and headed upstairs to polish off his creative writing assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was Karynn’s birthday yesterday and all she wishes is to know what you thought of this chapter, so please do leave a comment if you have any thoughts to share :)


	7. Chapter 7

Brian slammed his palm down on his desk in frustration. He couldn’t believe the _thing_ that had just landed in his inbox. The art department had sent him a prelim of the Iams magazine ad he had assigned them a fortnight ago and it was a complete disaster. The whole design abounded with orange accents and cringe-worthy swirls of text, which wasn’t even close to what Brian had asked for. He had left specific instructions for the art department to create the ad in the spirit of David Carson and they had given him a jumbled mess with an unrealistic-looking dog in the middle of it. It was like they didn’t even know what a David Carson design looked like, which was a horrid thing to say about professional graphic designers.

Safe to say, Brian was furious. He threw a glance at his clock as he stood up - noting it was almost half three, so the whole art department should be long back from their lunch break - and strode out of his office.

Storming into the artists’ bailiwick, Brian immediately began lambasting the designers, directing his diatribe at Brad and Bob, the indistinguishable artists, and the incompetent font bloke in particular. “What the fuck is this supposed to be?” he bellowed, slamming the prelim down on one of the moron twin’s desks.

‘Brad or Bob’ didn’t cower as he usually did when confronted with an irate Kinney, instead removing the draft advertisement from the center of his desk and setting it to the side. “A dog, Brian, it’s a dog,” he murmured.

The other twin’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Yeah, modelled after my aunt’s mutt. Cute bugger, don’t you think?”

“Then your aunt clearly has serious problems with radiation,” Brian roared, “because that creature looks like a mutant mole. And what’s with that font?”

“I thought the orange lettering was really classy,” font boy defended himself. “I mean, what dog wouldn’t prefer Iams?”

“You think the dog walks into the store and buys the food?” Brian caustically demanded. “It’s the dog owners we’re targeting, you nitwit.”

“I’d buy it,” the twins piped up in eerie unison.

“For that radioactive rat terrier?” Brian sneered. “I doubt even your aunt would buy Iams if she saw this garbage.” With that, he pushed the disaster of an advertisement back to the center of the twin’s desk.

“Then show us what you want,” the font fuckup requested in a gratingly reasonable voice. “We gave you what you requested; I don’t see how you can expect more of us.” He sniffed dismissively and returned to the project he’d been working on.

“You’re not getting away with that,” Brian snarled, “not if you want to keep working here at Ryder, where we insist on a quality product for our clients.” He loomed over the desk of the carrot topped, pimply faced font moron and ordered, “You’re going to work with the Kishimoto twins and produce an adequate prelim I can present to the clients tomorrow. I don’t care if it takes the three of you all afternoon or all night.”

Backing away from the font farce’s desk and looking at the undynamic trio, Brian gritted out, “Do you understand?”

All three men looked resentful but acquiesced as Brian expected. “Shoot me an email with the revised ad attached,” he commanded. “Do not leave the office until I approve of it,” he reiterated before stalking out of the art department.

Brian didn’t give a fuck that he wasn’t meeting with the client until the following week. If he didn’t light a fire under the dipsticks’ arses, they’d never come up with a remotely useable ad.

The advertising executive couldn’t figure out what was up with the un-artistic team as he returned to his office. They’d seemed distracted and not as in awe of him as usual, when normally they would scurry around in a satisfyingly servile manner while he berated them. Brian didn’t consider them to be _completely_ incompetent, although he had to give them an excessive amount of direction, even micromanaging them. So why hadn’t the asshats been more responsive this time?

Brian detoured into the break room to grab a cup of the sludge that passed for coffee, only for the two women who had been chatting away to fall silent and look at him sidelong. What was up with everyone today? Were they all on drugs? Ignoring the girls and their zombie-like silence, he heaped sugar into his coffee cup, poured in some of the dark liquid which smelled burnt as usual, and returned to his office.

Not half an hour later, Brian rubbed at his eyes, shoving away in disgust the Kofola account he had started working on. He couldn’t concentrate, worries about what Thomas might do preying on his mind. When Cynthia rapped on his door a few minutes later, he was glad of the interruption and hoped she had gleaned some gossip about that manipulative sales rep.

“I know you don’t like bad news to be sugar-coated, Brian,” she began, reaching a placating hand out toward her boss, “so I’ll come right out with it, ok?”

Immediately put on the alert by his secretary’s approach to the topic, Brian shrugged fatalistically and said, “let’s have it.”

“The whole building is buzzing like a kicked-over wasp’s nest,” Cynthia reported. “Now, this is third or fourth hand gossip but, apparently, Thomas talked with a couple of his buddies in the sales department and accused you of sexually harassing him. He told them you’ve threatened that you’d have him fired if he didn’t let you fuck him.”

“That slimy git has some serious delusions of desirability,” Brian grunted. “I’ll admit I might have fucked him under different circumstances, but I’ll never need to coerce anyone into sleeping with me.” In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he smirked to himself as he remembered calling it the ‘fuck defense’ during his meeting with Melanie.

“I don’t think there’s any way to put a stop to the rampant speculations,” Cynthia stated angrily as she paced back and forth in front of Brian’s desk for the second day in a row. “Kip probably lied to his friends because they had heard about Marty practically dragging him out of your office and asked him what was going on. My guess is that he reversed what actually happened to garner sympathy and place the blame on you.”

“Don’t tell me,” Brian grumbled, “the general consensus is that I’m guilty.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” his secretary fumed. “Some of those tasteless fools have even started a wager as to how long it will be before Ryder fires you.”

Brian leaned on his elbows, bracing his chin with his hands, “What’s the outside bet as to how long I’ll last?”

Slumping into a chair across from Brian, Cynthia huffed, “One month.”

The ad exec stared at his assistant, who had been invaluable to him since she’d first started working for him four years earlier - not that he’d ever told her that, of course. Before the competent and confident blonde had come along, he’d been discarding secretaries almost as fast as he had been plowing through tricks. All of them had bitched that he was impossible to work for, while Brian had claimed they were just looking for excuses for their incompetence. He suddenly realised, that if Cynthia hadn’t already considered the trickle-down effect Thomas’ accusations might have - not only on Brian but also on her - she should be doing so.

“Cynthia, I don’t know how Ryder’s going to proceed with Thomas,” he morosely acknowledged, “but Marty will think of himself and his firm first and foremost, which probably doesn’t bode well for me. You should consider your options in case I’m thrown out on my ear.” Brian had always suspected that Ryder was ruled by self interest and, after meeting with the bulldyke lawyer, he was more convinced than ever that he should watch his back. Marty would jettison Brian as fast as possible to avoid the damage a ‘gay scandal’ might cause.

“What with the shitstorm Thomas has kicked up, I’m already thinking about it,” Cynthia confessed. “All the jealous Brian-wannabes are turning this place into a dysfunctional hotbed of intrigue. Can you believe one idiot from the IT department was speculating with a group gathered round the water cooler that you and Kip were in a D/s relationship? He charged off to congratulate Kip on escaping from his ‘master’.

A burst of laughter escaped Brian at that crazy theory, but he rapidly sobered as he realized how clearly that demonstrated that some of Ryder’s other employees despised him. He was aware that many men - both homo- and heterosexual - envied his advertising acumen, fashion sense, and sex appeal; after all, that was all part of the Kinney mystique. Unfortunately, that led to spiteful colleagues and underlings - like Kip - rejoicing to see him taken down a peg or two.

“Brian, have you ever considered opening your own advertising firm?” Cynthia probed, drawing Brian out of his pensive thoughts. “I mean, you must have done, right? You’re the one who brings in the big accounts and keeps them satisfied - without you, Ryder would be half the agency it is now.”

“As a long-term goal, yes, I’d like to start my own business,” Brian replied. “I expected, though, that I’d become Marty’s partner first, gradually taking over the reins from him so that he could retire. He has been grooming me to become his partner for years, but this Thomas incident has undoubtedly shot that all to hell. If Kip hadn’t opened his gob to his buddies after Ryder hauled him out of the office, the partnership might have still been on, but I fear it’s too late to salvage it now.”

“Well, if you ever _do_ open your own firm, I want to be your first employee,” the blonde asserted. “Just think about it, okay? You don’t have to decide today.”

“I’m not ready for my own firm yet,” Brian explained. “You know, if Thomas had approached me in a rational manner about participating in a marketing campaign - rather than trying to rip off one of Coca-Cola’s advertisements - I might have been willing to mentor him and help him climb the corporate ladder. I’d have let him know flat-out, though, that he needed more experience before he could handle a promotion.”

When Cynthia made an encouraging noise for him to continue, Brian elaborated, “So now I’m in the same boat that Kip could have been in as far as advancing my career. Sure, I’m a savvy advertising executive, and I have an excellent track record of increasing sales for my clients, but I don’t have any experience managing a firm. If Marty made me a partner, I would acquire that know-how in an established agency.”

“Couldn’t you learn on the job?” Cynthia suggested, her voice a little pleading, “that should be feasible as long as you hire top-notch employees, right?”

Brian commented dryly, “Maybe… as long as I didn’t end up epitomizing the Peter principle, rising to the level of my own incompetence, and running my fledgling business into the ground within the first year.”

When Cynthia began to protest that he could never be that inept a manager, Brian requested, “Let’s table that discussion for the foreseeable future and try to get through what remains of this hellish week. Please?”

The blonde gaped at her boss in consternation when the word ‘please’ fell out of his mouth; Brian figured she had thought he didn’t even know the word, let alone how to use it. At least it had silenced her well-intentioned prattle about starting his own agency.

“What I need right now,” the beleaguered ad exec exclaimed as he pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up, “is something to eat. I’m waiting for the morons in the art department to get their shit together and send me a revised prelim of the Iams advert. I’ve told the three blockheads that they can’t go home until they produce something acceptable, so they may come whining to you.”

Cynthia chuckled, “Don’t worry, Brian, if that happens, I’ll just crack the whip and send them back to their cubicles.”

An image of his secretary as a whip-wielding dominatrix clad in black leather had the brunet laughing as he exited the office and drove to the diner.

 

Brian’s stomach rumbled as he pushed open the door of Liberty’s most famous eating establishment. Of course, its fame might also accrue from being the only eatery in the vicinity of all the bars, clubs, and shops that adorned the length of Liberty Avenue.

The brunet didn’t normally eat much during the day except, perhaps, for a green apple that he would grab from the bowl on his counter as he departed the loft. His recent overindulgence in bourbon, combined with the stress from the Thomas incident, had kept his gut churning for the last day and a half, making him even less peckish than usual. Not that he would have had an apple handy to munch on anyroad, what with the loft still off limits and the lesbians apparently not interested in munching on apples. Brian’s face screwed up in an expression of distaste at the thought of what the girls _did_ like to munch on.

While he was lost in those horrific contemplations, an enthusiastic “Brian!” and a smack of lips against his cheek caught him unawares.

“Deb, stop,” Brian tried to fend off the redhead with limited success as she scrubbed at the makeup with her fingers. He would have to nip into the men’s room as soon as possible to make sure that bright red lipstick wasn’t now smeared across half his face.

Debbie just laughed, “Give over, you big lummox. You love it when I mother you.”

Brian did indeed like that Deb showed how much she cared about him; as far as he was concerned, she was the only real parent he’d ever had, certainly the only loving one. He wasn’t about to admit any such sentiment to his surrogate mother, however, not unless he was sure no one else would overhear.

“This may come as a surprise, but I actually stopped in here to eat, not to be fussed over,” Brian commented as he sidled around Deb and settled into the nearest open booth.

As the brunet’s stomach grumbled again noisily, Debbie placed one hand against her chest as if in shock, and declared, “Why, Brian Kinney, you’re really and truly hungry.”

With a sheepish look on his face, Brian muttered, “My appetite’s been off lately.” He hoped Debs hadn’t gotten wind of his binge with Melanie or that he’d spent the previous evening drowning his sorrows; she’d tell him that was no way to solve his problems.

But, as he had hoped she would do, she ascribed his uncooperative stomach to the Thomas situation. “Small wonder you haven’t felt like eating, Honey,” the concerned redhead commiserated, before dropping her voice and asking, “any developments with that weasel at Ryder?”

“Nothing except malicious gossip,” Brian wearily replied, “so I decided it would help to get out of the office for an early dinner.”

“You keep standing up to that slimy bastard, you hear me?” Debbie urged. “Live your life out and proud, just like you’ve always done.”

Bestowing a lopsided grin on the motherly waitress, Brian teased, “Can I have some food to go with that advice?”

“Sure thing, Honey. How about something more exciting than whole wheat toast sans butter?” Deb inquired with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Huh, breakfast for dinner does sound tempting,” Brian mused. “Bring me an order of French toast and bacon, syrup on the side.”

“Carbs,” Deb gasped, “aren’t you breaking one of your precious rules?”

“What?” Brian snapped, “it’s not seven o’clock yet.”

“Bacon and French toast it is,” Deb confirmed, shaking her head in bewilderment as she went to deliver Brian’s order to the cook.

Later on, after he had consumed his dinner, including every drop of syrup in the little container, the ad exec was on his laptop, responding to email messages from clients, when his inbox pinged to inform him that he had received an email from Ryder’s art department. “Finally,” he muttered, clicking on the message to open it.

Aghast, he stared at the altered version of the Iams dog food ad, which looked even worse than the first prelim. The wonky dog appeared to have undergone another round of radiation, and the font was now an electric shade of blue.

He fleetingly wondered whether the three cretins in the art department were deliberately trying to piss him off. The font bloke must have gotten lazy, simply going with the association of the color blue with money and credibility in the advertising world. It clearly didn’t suit dog food, though, and had ended up making the advert look like total shite.

There was no way he was going to let the three fuckups off the hook. Pulling out his cell phone, Brian dialed the director of the art department to read him the riot act.

“Chuck,” he growled after the man had picked up the phone, “what the fuck is the problem with the team you assigned to the Iams’ account? Both the prelim and the revision are complete rubbish.”

“Brian, you’ve got to stop reaming out my artists,” the art department head advised. “It’s counterproductive.”

Brian’s stomach roiled all over again at the double entendre behind ‘reaming them out’. Had Chuck intended that sexual innuendo, or was he simply being paranoid? Pushing that aside for later consideration, Brian argued, “If they would do their jobs right in the first place, I wouldn’t have to take them to task, now would I?”

“My boys showed me the instructions you gave them, Brian,” Chuckie-Boy countered, “and I must say they were rather vague. Why don’t you try providing some more detail?”

“Richardson, the guidance I gave them was more than sufficient. They’re experienced graphic designers, for fuck’s sake, not trained monkeys,” Brian bit out, “although _they_ could probably do a better job.”

“I say, Brian, that’s going a bit too far,” the art chief replied in a smarmily superior tone.

“I haven’t gone far enough,” Brian contended, voice threatening. “Your boys had better be there when I get back to the office. I’ll have them working their asses off until they come up with an adequate mock-up.”

Wishing he could slam the phone down in the man’s ear, Brian pushed the ‘end call’ button and looked around for the blond brat he’d seen enter the diner while he’d been on the phone. The teen had sent a tentative smile in his direction, but the brunet had given him the cold shoulder again, turning on his seat so that he was facing the window. Now, Justin was standing behind the counter, putting on his apron. Maybe, he could truly be of some use, for a change.

Completely incensed at the audacity of the art director, Brian stood up, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser on his table. He then pulled out a pen from his inner suit pocket before stomping over to the counter, where he shoved both items at Justin. “Draw me a dog, would you?” he told him in an impatient voice.

Justin stared at him in disbelief. “What?” he croaked out.

“A dog?” the brunet repeated.

Still taken aback, Justin decided to just go with the flow and do as he was told. “Ok, eh, what sort of dog?”

His former lover shrugged, looking more and more impatient by the second. “I don’t know, a Lab? A German Shepherd? I don’t care as long as it looks like a dog.”

Not wanting to question the fact that Brian was apparently talking to him again, the blond accepted the pen as well as the napkin and started creating a quick sketch of a German Shepherd in a curled up position. It was rough, the details not as precise as he would’ve liked them on a flimsy paper napkin, but when he presented it to Brian, the man seemed happy with it.

“Perfect,” he said, “that’ll do to prove my point.”

Justin gave him a questioning look, not sure what Brian was on about, but the brunet ignored him, turning on his heel and scarpering. So much for talking to him again, then - Justin had obviously been kidding himself.

“You all right over there, Sunshine?” Debbie called out as she returned from delivering orders to eight rowdy lesbians, who had somehow managed to cram themselves into one booth. She joked, “You should shut your gob, Kiddo, or you’ll catch flies.”

“Huh?” the dazed teen responded. He’d been gaping at the door through which Brian had just so precipitately departed.

“You’re awfully pale,” Deb fretted, “are you coming down with something?”

“No, really, I’m not sick,” Justin protested. “I just had such a weird encounter with Brian, that I don’t know what to think. He wanted me to draw a dog, any dog, on a napkin and when I did,  he dashed out of here without so much as a thank you.”

“Well, that’s bizarre, for sure. Even by Brian’s standards,” the waitress acknowledged. “Maybe you should cut him some slack though, as he’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

“Okay,” Justin shrugged in easy-going acceptance; he refused to let the brunet’s irrational behavior get to him. At least he hadn’t been bitching about all Justin’s supposed faults this time around.

 

Brian charged back into the art department, infuriated to see the recalcitrant artists chattering away with not a care in the world, none of them doing a lick of work. The font buffoon even had his chair tilted back, feet up on his desk with ankles crossed. The ad exec barely resisted the hankering to pull his chair out from under the lackluster font designer; he had to issue a stern warning to himself that the fool would probably break his coccyx - and then sue Brian for bodily harm. Another lawsuit was sure to be the death knell to his tenure at Ryder, if not to his career in advertising.

“Listen up! _This_ ,” Brian railed, flinging the napkin with Justin’s sketch down in front of one of the twins, “is what a dog looks like. Not that radioactive mongrel you had the audacity to send me.”

The man glanced at the drawing and shrugged, “Nothing special about it. Any five-year-old could have done that.”

“If that’s the case,” Brian sneered, “it should tax your acuity to its limits. Go on,” he challenged, “try and duplicate that sketch. A high-schooler needed only three minutes to draw it, but I’ll be generous and give you five.” With that, he pushed back his sleeve to access his watch and time the man’s progress.

When he noticed the flabbergasted artist simply staring at him, he snidely recommended, “You’d better get started. You only have four-and-a-half minutes left.”

Brian grinned to himself in satisfaction as the man’s pencil flew across the paper, the artist darting quick looks at the napkin to make sure he was accurately duplicating the German Shepherd. It looked like he hadn’t entirely lost the ability to intimidate, the brunet ruminated. Not only was twin numero uno actually drawing, the other two idiots had pulled up the offensive ad and were quietly discussing a redesign.

“Time’s up,” Brian stated after five minutes had elapsed. Taking the drawing from the artist and assessing it, he declared, “Even though the dog is missing one paw and looks a bit anemic, it’s far better than the mangy cur you created earlier.

The artist looked rather abashed, muttering, “Shit, it’s more difficult to just freehand draw than I remember it being.”

Appalled that an artist would allow himself to become so rusty in the basics of his profession, Brian lectured, “Practice makes perfect. Go out at lunch and draw what you see - people, buildings, plants, what-the-fuck-ever. Then, maybe, you’ll make a halfway decent graphic designer.”

The brunet couldn’t help remembering how Justin was almost always sketching something. The blond was rarely still, his fingers always itching to hold a pencil and pour out his observations onto any scrap of paper, even a napkin. It was only now, as he thought about how Justin’s artistry was an inseparable part of the lad, that Brian realized he had spoken to the teen at the diner despite his determination to ignore him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill sound of his cell phone ringing. He pulled it out of his suit pocket and looked at the screen, which read 'Jennifer' in bold black lettering. This day was getting better and better, he contemplated, not sure what Justin's mother could possibly want.

 

After his shift at the diner, Justin pulled out the notes he’d made on the influence of money in politics and started drafting the essay for his American Government class at the desk in Michael’s room. During his hours of research, he’d come to the conclusion that money and politics couldn’t be separated. He decided to open his paper with a provocative quote from Mark Hanna which reflected that reality. “There are two things that are important in politics,” the great Republican kingmaker of the late nineteenth century had said. “The first thing is money, and I can’t remember what the second one is.”

Justin provided numerous examples to back up his claim, demonstrating that money was always necessary to run for public office in a democracy, especially at the federal level, whether in the nineteenth or twenty-first century.

The young man was startled out of his intense concentration when Vic rapped on the open door to the bedroom. “Justin, I forgot to tell you earlier that Brian called and left a message that your mother is trying to reach you.”

“Oh, he didn’t say anything else?” Justin wondered. His mom must have called after he’d seen Brian at the diner, or the man surely would have mentioned it. They’d actually conversed, albeit briefly, as Brian had asked Justin to sketch him a dog.

“Nope, that was it. He called about an hour before you got home,” Vic said, confirming the teen’s supposition that the message had been relayed after he’d seen the brunet.

Justin groaned to himself at the thought of talking to his mother; he wasn’t feeling all that charitable after her indifference toward him at Molly’s birthday party. It wouldn’t do to ignore his mom, however, since he didn’t want her to pester Brian again; he could just imagine how pissy that would make the brunet. “Thanks, Vic,” he acknowledged, “I’ll take a break in a few and give her a ring - as long as neither you nor Debbie needs the phone.”

“No worries,” the older man chuckled, “we’re not in the middle of anything important. Anyone needs to get hold of us that badly, they can call back.” Vic had started toward the stairs when he turned around. “There’s not much on the telly tonight, so Sis and I thought we might play a game of Scrabble after we watch the local news. You interested in joining us?”

Justin was momentarily at a loss for words. He and Brian used to play Scrabble frequently, partly just for fun and partly in an ongoing competition to see who could win the most games. In fact, they’d played two rounds last Thursday, not quite a week ago, with the teen emerging the winner in a ‘two out of three’ contest. A grin covered Justin’s face as he recalled how he’d collected his winnings...

“Justin?” Vic’s voice jolted him back to the present, “it’s only if you feel like it, Kiddo.”

“Uh, yeah,” Justin stammered before forcing some enthusiasm into his voice, “sounds like fun.” And he wasn’t lying; it probably would be fun, as long as he could keep his mind off Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.

“In about half an hour then,” Vic mentioned as he left the room.

Unable to focus with the looming phone call at the forefront of his mind, Justin set his essay aside. After clattering down the stairs, he picked up the receiver of the wall phone and dialed the number that had once been his own. It was the number a tearful five-year-old Justin had rattled off to Mrs. Chanders after falling down and skinning his knees while playing hopscotch with Daphne on the sidewalk. Jennifer had scooped him up and showered him with kisses, making him giggle and forget all about his owies as well as the sting from cleansing the wounds and applying antibiotic ointment.

As the phone rang at his parents’ house, he remembered another occasion on which he’d had to dial that number. It had happened this past summer, after he had drunk too much at a kegger hosted by a friend’s brother and his fraternity buddies. Craig had answered the phone and hadn’t seemed particularly upset; later, when the overly-pale teen - who’d smelled like a brewery and had disgusting stains on his jeans - had gingerly climbed into the Ford Mustang, his dad had clapped him on the shoulder and announced, “All part of growing up, son.” That weirdly proud reaction was in stark contrast to the way Craig had reacted when he had discovered his son was gay.

This time, it was Molly’s voice chirping, “Hello?” as the receiver was picked up.

“Hey, Mollusk,” Justin affectionately greeted the ten-year-old girl. He didn’t want her to catch on that anything might be wrong, so he made sure to sound cheery.

Before he could say anything else, Molly shrieked, “Jester! I really love the drawing. Mom hasn’t been able to take me to the mall yet to get a frame…”

His sister was abruptly cut off as Jennifer’s voice carried over the line, “Justin? I’m so glad you called; I was doubtful that Brian would deliver my message.”

Already feeling somewhat resentful that she hadn’t taken Molly shopping for some kind of frame to display the sketch, his mother’s cool tone regarding Brian exacerbated his reluctance to speak with her. He knew it had only been a few days since the birthday party, but his sister had seemed really excited about the portrait. Plus, framing the drawing to hang it up would have been a gesture of goodwill toward Justin, the son Jennifer had neglected to contact until now.

So to have his mom slander Brian and make the man responsible for _her_ lack of communication got Justin’s dander up. In a decidedly frosty voice, he declared, “Brian relayed your message, Mom. Why did you call?” Justin knew he was being rather curt, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. His thumb twitched as it hovered over the hook switch; depressing it would end this decidedly awkward, rather antagonistic exchange.

Justin removed his fingers from the base unit as he resisted the temptation to hang up on his mom. Cradling the handset between his shoulder and his ear, he stepped over to the fridge, the curly phone cord stretching out behind him. He extracted a carton of milk and began pouring it while waiting for his mom to tell him the reason for her call.

Finally, Jennifer exasperatedly stated, “I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay, of course.”

The teen rolled his eyes as he snatched a lemon bar from the container on the kitchen counter and sat down at the table with his snack. There wasn’t much ‘of course’ about it, or Jennifer would have contacted him sooner.

“I’m fine, mom,” he responded dryly, surprised when he realized that was actually true. He was coping with the aftermath of the burglary better than expected; there was even a glimmer of hope that Brian would start treating him like a mensch again. Debbie and Vic had welcomed him into their household and family; he had a job; and, despite the bullying, he was excelling in his classes at St. James. He was _fine_.

“Well, how are your classes? Have you made some new friends?” Jennifer lamely continued speaking.

Justin lifted the handset and looked at it in disgust. It wasn’t as though he had suddenly switched to another school; he’d been attending St. James since the first grade. He was unlikely to have made new friends in the last few days, so he couldn’t figure out the reason for the inane question. Why couldn’t Jennifer act like she used to before discovering he was gay? She was behaving like a virtual stranger he hadn’t spoken to in years. At this rate, the next thing she’d mention would be the weather.

Sure enough. “So, I heard that a cold front accompanied by heavy rain and wind is supposed to move into the area for the Veterans Day weekend,” Jennifer noted when Justin remained silent about his classes.

“I feel sorry for the vets who will be parading in those miserable conditions,” Justin observed, playing along.

Jennifer hmmed noncommittally, seeming disinterested in the ramifications of said nasty weather, even though she had raised the topic.

Justin shivered as he pondered how he would have fared if the weather had been so malign just a few days ago. What if he had been thrown out of the loft into pouring rain? He would have rapidly become chilled and soaked to the skin, counting himself lucky if he didn’t get  really sick. Imagining that scenario, he suddenly felt more grateful than ever to Debbie for taking him in. Without Deb, who had offered him a job and a home, Justin would probably be a vagrant, regularly taking shelter at the bus station with Jed and other homeless winos.

Shit. He needed to let his mom know he was staying with Deb and Vic so she wouldn’t annoy Brian with more calls. “Listen, mom, if you want to talk to me again, you should call me at Debbie’s house, okay?”

“What? You’re living with Debbie now? I expected you to still be with that man after your rude performance at our house,” Jennifer reproved her son.

Justin refrained from pointing out _that man_ had a name, which his mom darned well knew; she’d spoken to Brian earlier that evening. Gritting his teeth, he queried sardonically, “You mean after dad hit me and threatened to send me away to boarding school?”

“Honey,” Jennifer cautioned in a saccharine tone, “your father shouldn’t have hit you, but if you’d just try and meet him halfway, things would be much different.”

Justin carefully set down the glass which he had just raised to his mouth; he was gripping it so tightly that he feared it would shatter in his hand. Willing away the pain from his mother’s remark, he took a deep breath. “That would mean hiding who I am. I won’t do that for dad, you, or anyone else,” the teen declared. “You should be proud of me since you raised me to stand up for myself.”

Jennifer claimed, “I promise - I stood up for you in front of your dad.”

“Only until I moved out,” Justin retorted, “at which point you were apparently relieved you didn’t have to keep defending me. You certainly didn’t seem impressed to see me at Molly’s party.”

“Justin… Sweetie… if you could just try to understand how difficult this is for us…” Jennifer begged.

The young man chuckled bitterly, “That’s rich, mom. I should sympathize with how difficult it is for you and dad to have a gay son.” Tired of the pointless, stilted conversation, Justin suddenly stated, “Look, I’ve gotta go. Do you want to write down this number or not?”

“Of course, I want the number,” Jennifer huffed.

Justin was getting awfully tired of hearing his mother say ‘of course’; it was becoming less and less convincing the more she said it. Since there was nothing he could do to change her attitude, he just slowly recited, “It’s 412-445-3764,” giving her a chance to note it down.

“Got it,” Jennifer confirmed before urging, “let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Justin responded indifferently, “Bye, mom.” Hanging up the phone, he reflected that he’d already learned not to rely on Jennifer. Why would he go to her for help? She didn’t want a queer son, so Justin assumed that anything she could potentially do for him would come with a price he wasn’t willing to pay.

The blond sighed, deliberately shunting aside further thoughts about his mother. While he polished off the lemon bar and drained the rest of his milk, he mulled over the best way to wrap up his essay. He then quickly rinsed out his glass and placed it in the dishwasher before trotting upstairs to whip out the final paragraphs.

When Deb’s voice echoed up the stairwell shortly thereafter, “Hey, Sunshine, you ready for us to trounce you at Scrabble?” he had completed his essay and was more than ready for a break from schoolwork.

“Trash talking won’t win the game,” the blond asserted with a grin as he clomped down the stairs and into the living room. Rubbing his hands, he boasted, “Prepare to be whipped by the Scrabble guru.”

“Oho, maybe we should set some good stakes for this game, Sis,” Vic suggested.

A wicked twinkle in her eyes, the redhead proclaimed, “The losers clean and organize the attic this weekend.”

“Fuck, Sis,” Vic groaned as a dismayed expression settled over his visage, “no one has dug into the recesses of that attic since Tricky Dick was president.”

“Yep, you’re going to be wielding that feather duster while Sunshine handles the mop,” Deb stated confidently. “We’ll have ourselves a garage sale with the junk - uh, treasures - that you two unearth.”

Justin sported an amused grin as he listened to the comradely banter between the siblings. He was pretty sure he would win the game but, if he lost, he wouldn’t mind helping either Debbie or Vic put the attic to rights. In fact, he was pretty sure all three of them would end up pitching in, regardless of the outcome of the game.

“Vulgarities are gladly accepted,” Vic announced with a wink as he unfolded the board, “so let’s see how creative we can get.”

The next forty-five minutes sped by, all three of them vying to spell out the dirtiest words possible. “Where’s that bloody ‘K’?” Vic complained at one point, “can’t suck dick without it.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Debbie exulted as she laid down the tiles to form ‘fucker’, using all but one of her remaining tiles. She earned only nineteen points for the word, but she was now ahead of Vic by thirty-one points, with Justin lagging another twenty-two points behind her brother. The redhead’s smug smile showed that she had kept track of the S’s and knew that all four had already been played; the two blanks were also on the board.

“You’ve fucked this fucker, Sis,” Vic admitted with a rueful chuckle, “and not in a positive, life-affirming way,” as he placed an ‘O’ and a ‘P’ next to the ‘C for a whopping fourteen-point, double-word score. He was left with four unused tiles on his rack.

“Hah!” Deb cackled, elbowing her brother in the ribs, “you got stuck with an unplayable ‘Q’, didn’t you?”

Considering her win a foregone conclusion, the redhead rose from her chair, offering, “How about some ice cream and rhubarb pie as a consolation prize, gents? Gotta build up your energy for that attic,” she then crowed in a teasing tone.

“Not so fast, Debs,” Justin chided, “I haven’t had my turn yet.”

“C’mon, Sunshine, you aren’t going to catch up to Vic’s score, much less to mine,” Debbie consoled the teen as she started toward the kitchen, “so why not concede and enjoy some dessert?”

“Holy shit!” Vic cursed admiringly from behind her, causing Deb to turn around and watch in open-mouthed disbelief as Justin spelled out ‘queenly’ along the bottom of the board, the ‘Y’ nestling up beneath the “R” of ‘fucker’.

Not only did Justin earn seventy-two points for ‘queenly’ - the ‘Q’ landing on a double letter score and the entire word counting for triple points - he added an additional nineteen points for ‘fuckery’, with the coup de grâce coming from the fifty-point award for using all seven tiles.

“Queenly fuckery,” Debbie tittered, “if that don’t beat all, Sunshine.”

“One hundred points of fuckery,” Vic guffawed. “We won’t take it easy on you next time,” he threatened, “now that we know you’re hiding a Scrabble shark behind that sunshiny facade.”

“Heck, we’ll give you a handicap the next time we play,” Debbie asserted. “Damn, but I haven’t been drubbed that badly in years.”

The trio laughed uproariously as they scarfed down the pie and ice cream, Deb good-naturedly poking fun at herself for thinking she’d won before the game was over.

Justin couldn’t help comparing Debbie’s behavior with the way Brian would sulk after losing at Scrabble. The redhead treated the game like it was all about fun - as if it were almost as good to lose as to win. The brunet, however, approached the game with deadly seriousness, and was sometimes such a sore loser that he would pout for hours, especially if Justin had outmatched him as dramatically as he had just done with Deb and Vic. It always left Justin slightly hesitant to gloat and properly enjoy his win, because he didn’t want to further aggravate his lover. In contrast,  being around the siblings was relaxing and fun, making Justin want to soak up even more of their carefree attitude. They had worries just like anyone else - especially with Vic constantly battling Aids - but they didn’t let the little things get them down.

“Debbie,” the teenager therefore earnestly offered after he finished his pie, “I want to help with the attic even though I won.”

“Sunshine, no,” his surrogate mother immediately demurred, “you have enough on your plate as it is - what with school and working at the diner.

“I’ll have plenty of time this weekend,” Justin insisted, “besides, my shifts at the diner are more fun than work.” With a philosophical shrug, he continued, “Anyhow, exploring your attic sounds like a great way to celebrate ending my week in detention.”

“Wait, won’t all that dust and other crud set off your allergies?” Deb questioned, her brow furrowing.

“We’ll probably find mouse turds, and the floorboards are likely riddled with dry rot,” the older man joined in.

Justin insisted, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine; I take my pills every day.” With a determined expression, he added, “Please, Deb, It’s one small way I can thank you for giving me a home.”

“Go on, Sis, you know we could use his help,” Vic urged, while looking at Justin approvingly for wanting to show his gratitude in a concrete way.

Debbie still looked at Justin doubtfully before hesitantly giving in, “If you’re sure…”

“I’m positive,” Justin excitedly replied, beaming at his benefactress. “It’ll be like a treasure hunt.”

“Tell you what, Sunshine, you can have the pick of any _treasures_ we find, to do with as you will,” the motherly woman proposed with a bemused smile.

“Killer deal,” Justin responded, more than pleased to spend a good chunk of the weekend in a musty attic with his housemates. The weekend was shaping up nicely - his shifts at the diner, dancing at Babylon with Emmett, a bit of studying, and an attic cleansing cum treasure hunt.

Justin quickly rinsed off the dishes, laughingly shooing Debbie away when she tried to take care of it. “Nope, you go relax,” he ordered. “I’m going to grab a glass of water and review my calculus notes for tomorrow’s exam before I hit the hay.”

“Okay, okay,” Debbie replied, “I think it’s time for some shuteye for me. You make sure you ace that exam tomorrow and show up that bigoted teacher, all right, Sunshine?”

“That’s the plan,” the teen agreed with a conspiratorial grin.

A bit later, having completed a quick revision of his calculus notes, Justin felt more than prepared for the morrow’s midterm. The young man crawled  under his covers and drifted off to sleep with a satisfied smile on his face, as he imagined fucking a certain brunet queen…

 

Speaking of fucking, Brian was currently watching two good-looking young men shag each other’s brains out against a chain-link fence. The scene was hot, the blond twink pounding into his dark-haired lover with such an abandon that the whole fence rattled, causing Brian’s blood to pool in his nether regions. Too bad he couldn’t join the pair and work off some of the tension from another shitty workday because, despite the high resolution of his laptop screen, the two men weren’t actually real. Porn was sometimes more frustrating than satisfying, thought Brian as he leaned back into his seat.

His journey home had been a nightmare. After he had finally left Ryder at nine, he had stopped at a nearby pub for a couple pints. Two pints had turned into four, beer had turned into bourbon, and soon Brian had been pissed beyond recognition.

He’d known he shouldn’t drive when he had finally lurched his way out of the pub at eleven, but he hadn’t wanted to call Michael to come pick him up again. His best friend would have harped endlessly about what a poor decision Brian had made by picking up that blond tramp under a streetlight, insisting yet again that all his problems stemmed from that night. Brian had figured he was already doing a thorough job of castigating himself - no peanut gallery required.

The sloshed brunet had ruled out a taxi as well since he hadn’t wanted to leave his new jeep where it might be vandalized. Fuck it all, he’d decided, it was late enough that there wasn’t much traffic, and he could navigate his way home on autopilot.

It was only after he’d staggered up the stairs at 6 Fuller and encountered the police tape that he’d remembered he couldn’t sleep at the loft. “Fucking blond,” he had slurred as he’d careened his way back down the stairs, “Michael, you were right about that kid.” He would have to let Michael know that he was actually right for once, the brunet had sagely decided as he had clambered back into the jeep.

Even though he had driven to Lesbian Land innumerable times over the years, Brian had needed to turn around twice on his way there since he’d somehow ended up on the wrong street. By the time he had finally managed to locate the girls’ house and stumble through the front door, he had sobered up a bit and had been intent on relieving his extreme horniness.

As usual, everything could be traced back to that insufferable blond twat. If Brian hadn’t needed a sketch of a dog to show the nitwits in the art department, he wouldn’t have approached Justin at the diner. Then, if not for the call from Jennifer, he wouldn’t have had the brat on his mind when he’d left the agency. Although he had scanned the pub for tricks, none of the patrons had merited a second glance, Brian unconsciously rejecting them for not being the correct shade of blond, sufficiently slender, or possessing an irresistible smile.

At Lindsay and Mel’s house, he’d rushed to set up his laptop on the coffee table, opening one of his favorite websites before plunking down on the couch.

Now, he was moaning lustily, watching the blond pump into his playmate, one hand inside the unzipped placket of his Zegna dress slacks as he stroked up and down. Just as Brian began another upstroke, the twinkie reached around and pinched his co-star’s nipple, causing both dark-haired men to erupt.

His head tilted back, Brian passed out, his rasping snores filling the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Valentine’s Day fast approaching and neither Brian nor Justin getting much affection at the moment, why don’t we even the scales a little and share some much needed love in the comment section? We would be very grateful for anything you have to share, be it praise or critique :)


	8. Chapter 8

The school bell rang, the piercing sound alerting students that the first lesson of the day was starting. For Justin and his classmates, it meant that it was time to take the midterm calculus exam. Having reviewed his notes again that morning, the blond felt prepared - in fact, he reckoned calculus was going to be his best subject this year, beating even graphic design.

He joined the other students quickly piling into the maths classroom, as they shoved each other in hopes of obtaining the best seats in the room - which meant the two rows in the back, usually the easiest to cheat in. Knowing Dixon, Justin was sure that wasn’t going to be the case this time though - the man was an expert when it came to controlling his students.

Sure enough, once they all sat down - Justin choosing a window seat in the second row - and their tests were distributed, Dixon walked around the whole classroom before  leaning against the back wall, arms crossed. This not only ensured that the last few rows were completely under his control, it also made it impossible for anyone to guess who he was watching - which any cheating student would know to be detrimental to sneaking cheat sheets from underneath their desk.

Justin, though not even considering any underhanded tactics, was truly made up to be sitting so far away from Dixon’s watchful gaze. The man was a pain in his side, and he couldn’t imagine properly concentrating if he had him breathing down his neck.

Skimming over the printout he had received, he quickly noted which problems appeared to be the most difficult and therefore worth more points than the simpler ones - he would tackle the challenging ones first, so that if he ran out of time in the end, his score wouldn’t suffer too much. Feeling ready to start, Justin finally put his pen to paper.

“Mr Dixon?” came a hesitant female voice from somewhere behind Justin a few minutes later, interrupting Justin’s contemplation of logarithmic differentiation. “Can I excuse myself for a moment?”

The maths teacher snorted. “You’re joking, right? In the middle of a test? Out of the question.”

“But sir,” the girl whined, “I really have to go.”

Dixon shrugged. “Not my problem, you should’ve gone before we started. Don’t think I don’t know all of your tricks; god knows how many secret stashes of notebooks and other materials you have in the washrooms.”

The girl wriggled in her seat, crossing her legs anxiously. “But I can’t hold it; you have to let me go,” she complained.

The brunet teacher’s mouth quirked up in an amused smile. “Of course, you are free to go as you please,” he said in a sly tone, “after you turn in your test.”

Now almost vibrating on her chair, the full-bladdered girl threw him an astonished look. “But I’m not finished!” she cried out, causing several people to shush her in irritation. The longer the two argued, the less time the others had to work on their tests, since no one could concentrate properly for all the blathering.

Dixon shrugged. “That’s your problem. Now, be quiet so others can concentrate,” he ordered her. “Though I don’t think it’s going to make much difference,” he added as an afterthought.

Justin cleared his throat quietly and tried to get back into the right headspace for derivatives, not caring if the girl turned in her test or peed herself where she sat - his only concern was to do well on the bloody test.

When the bell rang half an hour later, signalling the end of the first lesson, Justin was finished. He had managed to solve all of the problems and though there were two he wasn’t entirely sure about, he felt good about his efforts. He turned in his paper with a smile, not letting Dixon’s sour face ruin his mood, and strutted out. When he met up with Daphne outside the classroom, the girl’s face a picture of desperation as she asked him how had he done, he was cool as a cucumber.

“I’m not sure,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice, “but it didn’t seem all that hard.”

His best friend’s eyes widened in shock. “You’re joking me,” she insisted, “that test was something straight out of a horror film!”

Justin shrugged, still keeping up his nonchalant attitude. “There might have been one or two problems that were a bit more challenging than usual but-”

“I call bullshit,” Daphne interrupted him, “You are totally taking the mickey, Justin Taylor! We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t flunk us all and you know it.”

The blond finally dropped the act and grinned at his friend. “It was horrible,” he admitted, “but I actually think I did well.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Really? You’re not having me on?”

Justin put an arm around her shoulders as they started walking down the hallway. “Really, this past few days, I spent any free minute I had practicing limits and derivatives and it seemed to pay off. I mean, sure, Dixon can still decide that my solutions are too ‘queer’ or something and bring down my score, but I doubt he could flunk me even if he wanted to,” he asserted with a pleased smile.

Daphne pinched his side fondly. “I should’ve probably read my notes more than once, too,” she admitted, “but _Gladiator_ was on the telly yesterday and I just didn’t get around to it.”

Justin tugged his friend’s pigtail in retaliation for his smarting side. “Oh yeah? Was it any good?”

“It was definitely worth it,” the girl affirmed, hip checking him. “Russell Crowe is totally fit; I would climb him like a tree.”

Justin made a move to poke his friend but she avoided his attack easily. “Loser,” she taunted cheerfully.

Justin suppressed the urge to stick out his tongue at her, instead settling for insulting Daphne’s crush, “Crowe looks like an ape, nothing attractive about that.”

His best friend didn’t let herself be provoked. “You’re just jealous he’s buff,” she accused.

Before the blond could come up with an appropriate remark - preferably one that wouldn’t make him sound like an envious mug - Justin noticed that they were passing the English teacher’s staffroom. “Wait a second,” he told his friend, stopping Daphne with an outstretched arm across her front. “I need to turn in the story for my creative writing class.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “You’re cutting it really close with that one,” she noted, “it’s due the end of this week.”

Justin shrugged. “So I procrastinated a bit; sue me.”

His best friend just shook her head at him in her best impersonation of Jennifer, “It’s always something with you, Justin.”

The blond gave her a reproachful look, before knocking at the door to the staffroom. It opened soon thereafter, the head of the school’s eccentric English Lit teacher - ironically named Mrs Shy - poking out. “What?” she asked, clearly distracted.

Justin gave her his best smile. “Hello, Mrs Shy, is Mr Crowley in there? I have an essay to turn in.”

The woman pushed up her glasses, blinking at him. “Uh, Mr Crowley, yes,” she sputtered out, “he’s here.” She turned to look behind her, yelling, “Stephen! There’s the little gay kid here to see you.”

Justin winced. Seriously, did she have to say that? She probably didn’t even realise how offensive she was being, but the blond was still left incensed. He didn’t want to be the ‘gay kid’, he wanted to be the kid who just happened to be gay.

Before he could say or do anything though, Mrs Shy disappeared back inside the room, leaving the doorway free for Justin’s perpetually absent-minded creative writing teacher. “Ah, yes. Justin, was it?” he asked him.

The blond nodded. “Yes, sir. I brought the midterm short story that was due today,” he told his teacher, shoving the paper at the man.

Crowley took it, still looking a bit dazed. Justin felt like he had entered a twilight zone, as he wondered what the heck the teachers had been doing in that office. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say they were knocking boots and had just finished one of their encounters.

“So, uh, I’ll just go,” the blond got out, feeling like an idiot.

“Yes, yes, of course. You go, Justin.”

As soon as the door closed behind Crowley, Daphne burst out in a fit of laughter. “Well that was awkward,” she remarked with mirth. “You should’ve seen your face; you looked like Hobbs trying to figure out a quadratic equation.”

“Nice one, thanks. You’re a proper comedian, you are,” Justin deadpanned, unimpressed. “Now let’s get a move on or I’ll be late for Latin.”

Daphne just kept chuckling.

 

Meanwhile, Brian’s morning started off rough. He couldn’t figure out why a piercing female voice would be drilling into his brain early in the morning. At least he could be certain it wasn’t a trick. Or he thought he could anyway, unless he was in some kind of time warp and had travelled back in time to his college days - an era when he’d experimented briefly with the opposite sex.

"Huh?" Brian snorted, breaking off another wheezing snore. He could barely open his eyes, which seemed to be gummed shut.

"Wakey-wakey, Daddy," that persistent female called again.

The brunet flailed about, unable to free his right hand. Was he trapped in some kind of bondage scenario? he muzzily speculated.

Simultaneously, an offensive odor assailed his senses and a different female voice uttered in disgust, “Ugh, I did not need to see _that_ first thing in the morning.”

Brian finally managed to pry his eyes open and looked about blurrily. At first he thought he was seeing double, but then the indiscernible images resolved into Melanie and Lindsay. His blonde friend, her eyes sparkling with hilarity, was holding their son, who was undoubtedly responsible for the foul stench. The other lesbian was standing next to her, frowning at Brian in revulsion.

Back atcha, he mused, your sour puss isn’t the first thing I want to see in the morning either. Trying to move his hand and realizing it was still trapped and wondering whether the bulldyke had something to do with his predicament, the brunet glanced down - only to discover that his hand was wrapped around his flaccid cock inside the fly of his dress pants, his belly and rucked-up shirt decorated with splotches of dried come. Memories of getting plastered the previous night and then settling in to watch porn on the munchers’ sofa came flooding back. Although Brian wouldn’t normally mind flaunting his body, he felt a bit embarrassed to be in a state of dishabille this morning, his face flushing and his pecker shrivelling under Mel’s accusatory glare.

“Laba!” Gus exclaimed, drawing Brian’s wandering attention back to his son.

“Here,” Lindsay announced, plunking Gus down in Brian’s lap before he could even remove his hand, “it looks like you need to clean up both yourself and your son.”

Brian quickly wrapped his free arm around Gus to hold him steady while sending a long-suffering stare in the blonde’s direction, as if silently inquiring, ‘Did you have to do that?’

Lindsay’s arched eyebrow indicated that she did indeed find it quite necessary.

The brunet carefully pulled his hand out from beneath his son, wincing as Gus squirmed energetically, hitting a sensitive spot.

“Did you plan to go to the office today?” Melanie queried in a saccharine tone.

Brian’s brow furrowed as he gazed once more at Mel, who was dressed in a pantsuit, holding her briefcase in one hand.

He started to ask, “What kind of stupid quest-” when he saw the time on the hideous cuckoo clock on the wall. It was already nine o’clock.

“Fuck me!” he yelled as he staggered to his feet, his pants slithering down his hips.

“No thanks,” Mel taunted, “I’m not into pegging. I could ask one of my friends, though; she might be willing to help you out.”

Brian’s glare should have incinerated the dyke, but she seemed unaffected. “Fuck, fuck, double fuck,” he cursed, hopping about, trying to pulling up his slacks while holding Gus in his other arm. “I should have been at the office an hour ago.”

“That’s what happens when you drink too much,” Mel proclaimed sententiously.

The brunet’s eyes narrowed as he recalled who his drinking partner had been just a few nights earlier. Instead of calling the dyke on her hypocrisy though, he snarked, “You keeping banker’s hours now?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Mel retorted, “but I’m heading directly to court this morning after working late last night.” With that, she bestowed a kiss on Lindsay’s cheek before marching out the door.

“C’mon, Linds,” Brian beseeched, “cut me a break and take care of Gus, would you? I need to shower and get to the office right away.”

The blonde backed away, shaking her head, “You got yourself into this pickle, Brian.”

“Please,” Brian found himself reduced to begging, “my situation at work is horrible right now; I honestly wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

Relenting, Lindsay took Gus from his father, “Just this once, Brian, and I expect you to fill me in on what’s happening at Ryder this evening, you hear?”

“I will,” the ad exec promised before dashing up the stairs to shower and get dressed. He really had to pull himself together.

 

During his final session in detention that afternoon, Justin made every effort to appear to be seriously meditating on the St. James code of conduct that first half hour. Then, the teen managed to maintain the same earnest expression in the second half hour too, while he composed the last segment of his essay - addressing how he would henceforth comply with the dress code. The whole time, the blond was actually jittering with excitement at the thought of escaping the classroom, and he surmised the other detainees felt the same - their legs jiggling restlessly and fingers tapping against their desks.

As was his usual procedure during the half hour devoted to writing their essays, Bauer paced between the students’ desks, stopping periodically to stonily glare down at their papers. Justin nervously blotted his sweaty palms against the surface of his desk when the man halted next to him. He wished he could wipe them off on his pants, but Bauer would reprimand him severely - as proved two days earlier. The sadistic teacher had given a stern talking-to to the chess geek, caustically asking him whether he had trouble following simple instructions and hinting that the poor sod might need another week in detention if he didn’t keep his hands in plain sight. Needless to say, none of them had dared remove their hands from the surface of their desks since then.

Finally, the bell rang, signalling that it was five o’clock, and Justin shuffled up to Bauer’s desk behind the other students. When the quiet girl who’d folded her essay into a swan on Monday of that week set down her paper - which had multiple fold marks on it - Bauer sneered, “I’ll see you next week, girlie. You had better adjust your attitude, or you’ll be spending the rest of the semester in here.”

Justin placed his essay down in front of Bauer, grateful when the teacher didn’t say anything to _him_ , and hurried out of the classroom. In the hallway, he shot the quiet girl a commiserating glance, but she just grinned and shrugged, apparently taking her further punishment in stride. Damn, Justin thought, that girl had more fortitude than he did. He wondered if she would pull another origami stunt the following week - he would bet his butt she would.

In an ebullient mood from having escaped detention for good, Justin climbed onto the bus with a broad smile on his face. He was excited to be heading to the bank to set up his own account; it felt like tangible progress toward his goal of repaying Brian for the man’s burgled possessions.

During work the previous day, Justin had asked Debbie if it would be okay for him to start his shift at six o’clock instead of five since he wanted to open a checking account and deposit his tips. He wouldn’t receive his first paycheck for another week, but he wanted to have the account set up before then.

He had offered to stay till ten o’clock in the evening, telling Debbie, “With the holiday weekend, I won’t have to get up for school the next day.”

The waitress had simply bussed him on the cheek, replying, “I’m proud of you, Sunshine. Take all the time you need.”

As Justin had gone to clear some tables, she had then called out, “Wait a minute. Are you sure you’ll be up to covering the breakfast shift with me the next morning? You’ll be starting work at the same time you would be heading to school.”

“No problemo,” Justin had reassured his surrogate mother, once more touched by her concern for his well-being. “It’s not like I go to sleep at ten o’clock anyway, you know.”

Deb had laughed, “Oh, I know, Kiddo. I just want you to take care of yourself. You’re really burning the candle at both ends.”

Remembering that conversation now, the teen was still smiling as he climbed off the bus on Liberty Avenue forty-five minutes after he’d boarded it. Justin had selected PNC Bank for his accounts, partly because there was a small branch in close proximity to Debbie’s house and the diner and partly because it was the company with which Brian did his personal banking.

Thursday had turned out to be the best day to open an account since the bank was open till six o’clock and closed on Saturdays. This Friday also wasn’t an option because of the Veterans Day holiday. With being stuck in detention all week, Justin would otherwise have had to wait till the following week - which didn’t appeal to him at all. The teen needed to feel that he was taking charge of his life right now.

When he walked into PNC, Justin wasn’t sure if he needed to meet with a personal banker or not, so he bypassed the waiting area and walked up to a teller.

“How can I help you?” the friendly young woman asked as he stepped up to her window.

“I want to open a bank account,” Justin replied, “but I’m not sure whether I should do that with you or someone else.” To show that he was in earnest and had prepared for the process, he informed the teller, “I have my driver’s license and social security card; I figured you’d probably need both of those.”

A surprised look on her face, the bank clerk inquired, “Are you eighteen?”

“No… not until next February,” Justin stammered, beginning to worry that obtaining his own account wasn’t going to be as straightforward as he had expected.

“Then you won’t be able to open an account unless a parent or legal guardian co-signs,” the cashier apprised him. “Why don’t you come back with your mom or dad?” she suggested with a smile. “It’s a relatively straightforward process and shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

“But, I have a job,” the bewildered teen argued. “How is it that I can work and earn wages but not open my own bank account?”

“You haven’t reached the age of majority yet,” the woman clarified in a kind voice. “If you’d like to speak to a personal banker, they can go over your options with you.”

Twenty minutes later, a frustrated, discouraged Justin trudged out of the bank toward Debbie’s house so he could change out of his uniform. He didn’t know how to get around the situation he had found himself in - he couldn’t open his own account until he was eighteen; his only option until his birthday, which was a little under four months away, was to set up a joint bank account with a parent or legal guardian.

Justin snorted angrily over the never-ending influx of obstacles. Oh, and he mustn’t forget that, since he wasn’t yet eighteen, he would need his birth certificate, or a certified copy thereof. An item that was under lock at key at his parents’ house…

When Justin unlatched the front door to Debbie’s house and stepped inside, Vic, who was just exiting the kitchen with a mug of tea, teased, “What’s with the gloomy countenance, Sunshine? This is the start of a three-day weekend for you; aren’t you made up to be off school?”

“I’ll fill you in later,” the teen replied dispiritedly as he headed toward the stairs. “I need to get ready for my shift at the diner now. Let it be known, though, that I feel like I’m up the proverbial creek without a paddle.”

“Hey, Justin,” the older man called out as the lad placed his foot on the first step. When the teenager turned his head, Vic offered, “You know Sis and I are always willing to listen, right?”

With a wan smile, Justin swallowed a lump in his throat at the man’s kindness. “I know, thanks. I’ll talk to Deb at the diner, and you’ll hear all about the latest snafu later.”

“Okay,” Vic nodded, “hang in there. Whatever the problem, we’ll figure out a solution.”

Feeling slightly less out of sorts after talking to Vic, the teen changed into jeans and a t-shirt before walking rapidly to the diner.

When he pushed open the door, the bell jangled and Debbie looked up from the counter, where she was perusing the latest issue of _Out_ magazine during a lull in the dinner rush. Like her brother, the waitress immediately noticed something was wrong, Justin’s tepid effort at a smile evidently not very effective.

Reaching out to pinch one cheek, she exclaimed, “Where’s that sunshiny smile and those famous dimples, huh?”

“Well, you know how I was kind of excited about setting up a checking account, yeah?” Justin began, before spilling the entire tale.

Debbie harrumphed periodically, her face getting redder as she became more incensed. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Kiddo,” she declared when he had finished relating the encounter at the bank. “We’ll call Melanie tonight after you get home from the diner; you tell her what happened, and she’ll advise us on how to proceed.”

Justin, who’d been slumped against the counter, straightened up, his natural optimism returning. “Thanks, Debbie,” the blond sighed in relief, “I just couldn’t see any way out of this till now.”

“Chin up,” Debbie encouraged the teen. “Now, we’d better take care of all these hungry queers” she suggested, as more patrons streamed into the diner.

An hour later, Justin was coming out of the kitchen when he noticed a familiar-looking bloke entering the diner. He was a bulky guy, middle-aged, balding, and stuffed into an ill-fitting suit, and Justin couldn’t for the life of him figure out where he had seen him before. It wasn’t until the man walked up to the counter and pulled out a police badge at Debbie that Justin realised he was the cop who had answered his 9-1-1 call on Saturday.

“Excuse me,” the copper addressed the redheaded waitress, “where can I find Justin Taylor? He’s supposed to work here.”

Debbie narrowed her eyes. “Depends on what you want with him,” she said.

The policeman raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Are there multiple reasons I should want to talk with him?”

Justin quickly went to intercept, in case Debbie made him sound any more suspicious. “Eh, sir?” he called out hesitantly. “I’m Justin Taylor.”

The man looked him up and down, the look in his eyes warming up slightly. “Of course you are; I remember that hair. Detective Horvath,” he reintroduced himself. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I have a couple questions.”

Justin threw a glance at Debbie, who nodded. “Sure, shall we sit down?” he motioned towards a nearby empty booth.

They both slid into the booth, Justin irrationally nervous. It wasn’t like he was going to be interrogated but he still felt a frisson of fear run through him. “So, uh, you said you had questions?”

Horvath gave him a smile. “Loosen up, son. These are just ordinary follow-up questions, nothing to worry about.”

Justin returned the detective’s smile with an uneasy one of his own. “Well, I have never been interrogated before - unless you count the teacher inquisition at our school when someone draws a dick on the blackboard.”

The cop snorted. “I can assure you it’s not going to be anywhere near that bad. I just need to ascertain a few more details.”

Justin nodded, taking a deep breath. “Ok, let’s have it.”

Horvath pulled out an old-fashioned, leather-bound notebook and a stubby pencil. “How long have you lived at 6 Fuller?”

Justin blinked. “Um, about a month? Yeah, it was right around the beginning of October that my father decided he no longer had a son,” he said bitterly. He wasn’t even sure where it had come from; it wasn’t like he had planned on sharing that particular information, but it had just come out. He looked at the detective to assess his reaction, but the cop had a professional expression slapped over his face and it wasn’t moving.

“So not very long then,” Horvath noted. “Did any of your friends or relatives visit the loft during that time? Or did you perhaps mention to anyone that Mr Kinney owned a lot of expensive things?”

Justin felt affronted. “I didn’t tip anyone off!” he exclaimed.

The cop raised a placating hand. “I never said you did, but you might have inadvertently mentioned something in front of the wrong person.”

The blond grunted in irritation but calmed down a little. “I suppose, but really the only people who knew I even lived at the loft - excluding Brian’s friends - are my best friend and my parents. I don’t see any of them running an organised burglar gang.”

“Why do you think it was a gang?” asked the policeman, his voice hard.

Justin froze. “Uh, I just assumed. Is that suspicious? It’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

The detective relaxed. “Yes, normally. You seem honest enough though. So, why _do_ you think it was a gang?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged the blond, “but with the number of things that were stolen... I mean, they even took the dining table! You could hardly fit that into a bag.”

Horvath nodded. “That sounds reasonable,” he admitted. Then he continued with his inquiries, “Was the flat normally empty on a Saturday afternoon?”

“Uh, no. Not normally,” replied Justin. “Unless he had a work emergency, Brian and I would usually be at home together.”

“Why weren’t you at home last Saturday then?” asked the detective.

Justin wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers - and why the heck was he sweating anyway? - before replying, “I went to my sister’s birthday party and Brian had a client meeting at Ryder.”

Horvath jotted something down in his notebook, the itty-bitty pencil looking ridiculous in between his thick fingers. “And who would’ve known about this? Anyone you mentioned your plans to?”

The blond shrugged. “I don’t know about Brian but I didn’t tell anyone; I wasn’t even sure I’d be going myself. I had just decided that morning.” He paused, looking around, “Excuse me, do you think I could go and get myself a glass of water? I’m spitting feathers over here.”

The copper chuckled. “Sure, son,” he allowed, “bring one for me too, while you’re at it.”

Justin nodded, but before he could even stand up, Debbie appeared at his side. “You wanted to order something?” she asked with a suspicious glance at Horvath.

“You have some sixth sense or something?” grumbled Justin who had wanted to use the excuse of getting something to drink to take a break from the interrogation. Despite the fact that the policeman’s questions were hardly the first degree, the blond felt ridiculously nervous. He was worried he would say the wrong thing and somehow manage to implicate himself.

Debbie, ignorant of his inner turmoil, shrugged. “Been doing this since 1971, I can tell when someone’s about to order.”

“Right,” Justin said with scepticism, “I’ll have a glass of water then.”

The redhead turned to Horvath. “And you’re having?” she queried with a sassy cock of a hip.

The man blinked at her, clearly enraptured. “Ehm, I’ll have some apple juice. If you have it, Miss…” he trailed off, looking for her name.

Debbie waved him off, “Just Debbie is fine, Mister. One water and one apple juice coming right up.” And with that she flounced back behind the counter.

Justin turned to the detective, who was watching the quirky waitress walk away. “So, uh, any more questions?”

Horvath snapped his gaze back to to boy opposite him, clearing his throat. Wow, thought Justin, so this is what it looks like when a straight guy checks out a woman. Or, perhaps, the copper had just been distracted by Debbie’s exuberant attitude? Either way, it made the blond feel slightly better about the cop’s questions.

“Just one more for now,” the man assured him, once he got himself together. “Have you noticed any suspicious people hanging around the loft? Any strangers in the building? Any cars that would repeatedly drive by?”

Justin bit his lip. “I, uh, don’t think I can help you. I mean, there were always strangers around.”

The copper frowned. “How so?”

“Well, Brian has a tendency to invite a lot of, ehm… men, over to the loft,” the blond explained hesitantly, feeling awkward mentioning Brian’s tricks in front of a straight bloke.

Horvath raised his eyebrows. “Strangers?” he asked.

“Yeah,” admitted Justin quietly.

The copper wrote something in his notebook. “That’s not what Mr Kinney said when I talked to him on Saturday. In fact, he implied that no strangers ever had the chance to see his loft.”

The blond scratched at the back of his neck. “I guess he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable?” he theorised. It was utter bullshit, of course; making anyone uncomfortable was the last thing Brian cared about, but Justin wasn’t about to tell Horvath the truth. Brian Kinney, the most fearless and unapologetic fag to ever set foot on Liberty Avenue, didn’t trust the system and was scared that if he shoved his sexuality in the face of the police, they wouldn’t help him. Not an unreasonable fear, but a fear nonetheless.

“Here you go,” Debbie interrupted their conversation, setting their drinks down on the table. She then turned to Justin, “I’m off to my break now, Honey, so if you want to eat, Kiki will take your orders, ok?” The redhead motioned toward the other waitress, who was walking over to them with a big smile on her face.

Horvath’s eyes widened as he noticed the transvestite. “Oh is he… I mean, she, it…” he stopped his useless attempt at speech and cleared his throat in embarrassment.

Debbie stared at him in outrage. “If you have nothing intelligent to say, shut your mouth,” she lectured him, “that way you might avoid offending people, you homophobic oaf!”

Justin bit his lip, not sure if he was supposed to be offended on Kiki’s behalf or amused by Debbie’s interestingly-worded scolding. He threw a glance at the detective, who looked both contrite and affronted at the same time. “I’m sorry,” the man apologised, “I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

Debbie scoffed in clear disbelief, but Justin could see how someone who had never before encountered a tranny might be insensitive in their ignorance. The policeman could have grown up in a tolerance-challenged environment - a more than likely possibility when one considered his age. Though when it came to the police, age didn’t really seem to matter - they were all made out of the same kind of stuff, prejudice and all. “It’s ok, Debs,” Justin tried to soothe the motherly woman, “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.”

“Right,” she bit out before instructing him, “If he bothers you, you tell me right away, you hear me? You have enough on your plate without crackpot cops badgering you.”

“I’ll be fine, Debs,” he assured her. “Now go and have your break.”

The redhead didn’t look comfortable with leaving him alone with the ‘crackpot cop’ but let herself be persuaded to take her break when Kiki threw her a warm grin.

The tranny stepped up to their table, notepad in hand and a professional smile on her face. “So what can I get you, lads?” she inquired cheerily, though Justin thought he could see her left eye twitching.

Horvath cleared his throat again. “Look, I’m honestly sorry… ehm, Kiki?” he said and Justin thought that while he sounded sincere enough, he still looked uncomfortable as hell.

Kiki seemed to relax a little at his words, though. “No problem, Honey. You’re welcome to call me Kenny, if that makes it easier on you.”

“Yeah, well,” the detective paused, visibly pulling himself together. “I’ll have something greasy,” he finally said.

Kiki - or Kenny, if that makes it easier on you - tilted her head. “Cheeseburger and chips do you?”

“Yes, that would be great,” the copper agreed, turning to Justin. “You going to order something? I’m buying.”

The blond gave him a surprised look. This was a first for him - a straight guy offering to buy him food. “Thank you, sir,” he said, feeling weirdly grateful, “but my meals are free, since I work here.”

The detective nodded, clearing his throat once again. “Right.”

Justin smiled at Kiki. “I’ll take the bacon frittata, Kiks, it smells really good today.”

“You got it,” the cheerful waitress quipped, before turning around and leaving them to their conversation.

Justin looked across the table at the police detective - who was hiding his reddened face in his palms, groaning quietly to himself - and found himself overwhelmed by the sudden need to reassure the man. If the bloke was indeed interested in Debbie, like Justin suspected, he needed all the support he could get. “She’ll get over it,” he told him, “Debbie’s just very temperamental.”

Horvath let out a self-deprecating snort, looking up at the blond. “I always put my foot in it,” he complained, “I just never met a… transvestite before, so I don’t know how to talk to them.”

Justin nodded. “It usually helps not to call them an ‘it’,” he remarked.

The cop hung his head.

The teenager took pity on him. “There are no general rules for what to call them - you usually use pronouns based on what sex they identify with. The right way to go about it if you’re not sure, though, is to ask them - I guarantee that if they’re reasonable, they won’t get the hump with you.”

Horvath nodded with a sigh. “Could’ve used this etiquette lesson before I set a foot in this place. I’ve never seen so many-” he cut himself off. “You know what? I’m not going to finish that sentence.”

Justin grinned. “Good call. I imagine, neither one of us would be best pleased.” Against his better judgment, the blond found himself actually liking the older man. He was clearly uncomfortable and out of his element but he seemed to be trying, which was more than he could say about his own father.

“One cheeseburger and one bacon frittata,” announced Kiki, setting the steaming plates in front of them. Justin threw her one of his sunshiny smiles. “Ta,” he sighed gratefully.

“Yes, thank you, Kiki,” said the detective, looking the tranny straight in the eye.

The waitress gave him a wide grin. “Aw, bless you, Love,” she cooed at him, patting the detective’s shoulder. “Bon appetit,” she wished them before leaving again. The two men dug into their food in a companionable silence after that.

“So,” began the detective in between bites of his burger, “why don’t you live with your parents, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Justin swallowed his forkful of eggy fluffiness, shrugging in pretend nonchalance. “They don’t exactly agree with my _lifestyle_ ,” he explained sarcastically.

“Lifestyle?” the older man questioned.

“I’m gay,” the blond deadpanned, “and my father thinks I’m doing it just to spite him. As if being gay was something anyone would voluntarily choose - being constantly bullied and scoffed at by prejudiced people just because you’re attracted to a different gender than them. It’s all bullshit,” he finished heatedly.

Horvath chewed on a chip. “So you left?”

Justin found himself opening up to the cop, “Sort of? I still can’t decide if I left on my own or if I was thrown out. Either way, I felt like I didn’t have much choice.”

The detective’s brows furrowed in concern. “You’re not eighteen yet, are you? You do realise your parents might find themselves in a great deal of trouble for this?”

The teenager froze. Uh-oh, he should’ve probably been more careful about what he was saying to a cop, he thought. “You’re not going to do anything, are you? I don’t think my parents need any more reasons to hate me - I’m still hoping we’ll be able to reconcile one day.”

The older man sighed, putting down his cheeseburger. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “as long as you promise you’re doing okay and that you’re safe where you are, I won’t stir the pot.”

“I promise,” Justin swore, lifting up three fingers in a Boy Scout's oath, “I’m living with Debbie and her brother and I couldn’t have chosen better guardians.”

The copper nodded, reaching into his inner suit jacket pocket and pulling out a crumpled card. He tried to flatten it against the tabletop halfheartedly before sliding it over to Justin. “Take this,” he told the blond, “and don’t hesitate to call me in case you need anything, OK? I don’t care what time it is; if you’re in trouble, I’ll do my best to help you.”

Justin felt his eyes water as he looked at the card in his hand, and silently cursed his bloody allergies. “Thank you,” he choked out, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, son,” the detective said with a resolute nod before picking up his half-eaten cheeseburger again.

It was Justin’s turn to clear his throat. “You, uh… you could actually do something for me, I think?”

Horvath motioned for him to go on.

“I got into trouble at school for not having my uniform; do you think it would be possible for you to bring me my rucksack? I don’t think I could go through another week of detention without going crazy.”

The detective was quiet for a moment, probably thinking if he could comply with Justin’s request. “I suppose,” he finally conceded, “I could swing by your school tomorrow morning and give it to you?”

“That would be great,” agreed a relieved Justin, before pausing. “Wait, there’s no school tomorrow. I have a morning shift here, though, so maybe you can stop by for breakfast?”

“Even better,” chuckled the man, “how does seven grab you?”

 

While Justin was at the diner, making a surprising new ally, Brian was in his office, fighting with his old enemy.

“Stupid fucking thing!” he yelled, kicking the offensive machine in the side. “Spit it out, you useless piece of junk!”

Cynthia laughed at him from behind her desk. “Maybe if you tried being nice to it for once, instead of antagonising it, the printer would actually… you know, print.”

Brian scoffed at his secretary. “Maybe if you minded your own business, you would actually… you know, keep your job,” he shot back sarcastically.

The blonde rolled her eyes so enthusiastically that she would easily put even the mardiest of teenagers to shame. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The brunet turned back to the large printer that stood in the hallway leading to his office and growled. Maybe if he intimidated the machine a bit further, it would start listening to him. He didn’t use it often, as the small printer in his office was usually good enough, but now he needed an A3 format printout and this was his only option other than the art department printers. He punched the _print_ button again, listening to the typical rumble of the toner cartridges mixing the coloured powder.

He held his breath in anticipation as he watched the machine finally eat a blank sheet of paper, make a few churning noises, and at last, spit out a large printout of Brian’s latest idea for the Kofola account. It was a series of roughly sketched ideas for a TV commercial with notes explaining the professional decisions he had made. He usually found it easier to have each and every one of the details and artistic choices explained as clients tended not to blindly trust in his magic, no matter how charmingly he smiled at them while presenting it. That didn’t necessarily  mean they understood what he was talking about, but that didn’t seem to matter as long as they could say they had heard the reasoning when their boss asked them.

“Is that the Kofola account?” asked Cynthia, who was now looking over his shoulder, inspecting the printout.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “The idea is to include Hanukkah and Ramadan as well as Christmas in the commercial.”

Cynthia frowned. “I get the nostalgic-looking Christmas dinner and the Hanukkah feast, but shouldn’t you abstain from sugared fizzy drinks during Ramadan?”

Brian smirked. “That’s the thing - we’ll have the Muslim guy just staring at the bottle lustily, not being able to drink - to add a bit of comedy. It ticks all the boxes, don’t you think?”

The blonde secretary eyed the printout again and grinned. “Way to go, Bossman! This sounds good, you think the client will like it?”

He shrugged, “My research of the company suggests they will. At least their marketing department seems to have a good sense of humour.”

Cynthia nodded. “Great. Now, it’s almost six, and you wanted me to remind you that you need to get out of here on time for once. Though you didn’t tell me why?”

Brian blinked at her. He could’ve sworn it was no later than four o’clock. “I wanted to stop by the car wash before I went home, but they’re doing maintenance this evening and are only open until seven,” he explained.

Cynthia scrunched up her face. “It’s almost winter, Brian. Do you really need to have your car washed? It’s going to get dirty again in a matter of minutes.”

“So I should just let dirt pile on dirt until summer?” questioned the brunet sarcastically. “I’d be driving a ball of mud instead of a Jeep then.”

The blonde woman sighed, taking the A3 printout out of Brian’s hand. “In that case, go,” she told him. “I’ll put this on your desk along with the necessary documentation, so that you can go over it again tomorrow.”

Brian nodded in thanks, gathering his things before promptly leaving the office. He made his way into the garage, settling his stuff on the backseat of his Jeep, before opening his boot and pulling out the impregnated soft top that came with the car. He fumbled with it for a couple minutes before finally managing to install it. He had once forgot to do it and then had to embarrass himself by messing with the soft top right there at the car wash, halting the whole line of cars for several minutes - he was never going to repeat that ever again.

Satisfied that his car was sufficiently waterproof, he settled behind the wheel and turned his key in the ignition.

He arrived at his favourite car wash ten minutes later, queueing up behind three other cars. Brian watched in annoyance as the woman in the car in front of him fiddled around with something in her seat, taking her own sweet time driving up to the car wash when it was her turn. Really, the old minger shouldn’t even have a license, Brian thought, groaning to himself about bad female drivers when she couldn’t manage the sharp turn leading up to the entrance. The back tyre of the vehicle went over the curb before thudding back down onto the cement, making the brunet wince in sympathy with the vehicle. A stray thought as to whether that was how the woman handled her husband crossed his mind, which made him grimace even more - the bloke must be long dead, if so.

Pushing those strange musings aside, Brian watched as the woman slowly counted out the money for the car wash, taking forever to go through what must have been a stack of dimes and nickels. Finally, she must have tendered the entire sum of five dollars, as the attendant sprayed her car with foam before motioning her to inch forward.

The idiot complied, her front tyres settling onto the conveyor belt thingy, but then, instead of putting her car in neutral, she apparently pulled the hand brake, locking the tyres in place and preventing her vehicle from moving forward on the belt. After Brian handed his payment to the attendant, the men stared slack-jawed as the woman decided to drive her car through rather than releasing the brake. She succeeded in getting up quite a bit of speed in the few metres available to her before she slipped off the conveyor belt, smashing the side of her automobile into the metal construction of the car wash.

The attendant began cursing about how that was the third time some moron had performed that stunt this year. As he strode forward, he muttered how that “blasted blonde had better not have injured herself with that brainless maneuver.”

Once the attendant had assured himself that the woman was physically unharmed, he proceeded to take photos of the ‘accident’ and prepare an incident report, noting down the number plate for the car. Brian, who’d been fuming about the waste of time, willingly supplied his details as a witness to the incident.

There were now more than ten cars queued to enter the car wash, with no space for any of the drivers to turn around and go elsewhere as they waited for the logjam to be cleared. More than one irate driver poked their head out of their window and yelled questions about what was up.

A good twenty minutes later, Brian was both frustrated and amused by the woman’s incapable driving as he passed by her vehicle on the way out of the car wash, his Jeep now sparkling in the evening sunlight. The blonde was sitting behind the wheel, her cheeks flushed a splotchy crimson, gesticulating wildly as she yelled into her mobile phone. Brian presumed she was speaking with either her automobile association to obtain roadside service, or she was relating her woes to her husband. The brunet heard the words “going to sue these bastards” as he took in the damage to her car for the first time - the entire side of the vehicle was scrunched in.

Spinning this as a blonde joke to outclass all other blonde jokes, Brian found himself in quite good humor as he headed toward a nearby pub for a beer before going home.

 

“Does your phone even _have_ a loudspeaker, Debs?” questioned Justin as he entered the Novotny house, holding the door open for the redhead. They had decided to call Melanie as soon as they came home, Debbie promising to be right by his side with the phone on a loudspeaker, but Justin was now questioning the abilities of her old-fashioned wall phone.

“Excuse me?” the matron cried out in halfhearted offence, “loudspeakers have been around for over fifty years, thank you very much.”

Justin have her a dubious look, but decided not to comment any further. It wasn’t like he actually knew when a phone with a loudspeaker had been invented, so he wasn’t willing to get into an argument about it. Besides, Debbie was always right - even if at times she wasn’t - you just don’t argue with a hot-tempered Italian woman.

“Come on, Sunshine, I have Melanie’s number somewhere in here,” Debbie said, riffling through a leather business card holder.

“You don’t need to look for it, Debs,” Justin interrupted her search, “I’ve got it memorized after all the times I’ve babysat Gus.”

Debbie reached out and affectionately ruffled Justin’s hair. “Of course you do, Kiddo. Always prepared just like a Boy Scout, you are.”

Justin couldn’t help cynically thinking about how he was no longer welcome in the Boy Scouts, since gays were banned, though he supposed he had picked up a good habit or two during all the years Craig had insisted he participate in the organization.

“So, how do we work the loudspeaker on the phone?” he inquired, staring dubiously at the nearly antique wall phone.

Cackling, the redhead turned a knob on the side of the phone with her thumb. “That’s all there is to it, Sunshine,” she teased.

The blond wasn’t sure he believed her but nevertheless began punching in the number for Lindsay and Melanie’s house on the handset. Sure enough, a loud ping emanated from the phone as he pressed each digit.

Justin shot an abashed glance at Debbie, who laughed all the harder. “Newer technology isn’t always better,” she gasped out, clearly amused that the teen hadn’t believed her phone had a loudspeaker function.

Right then, a pleasant tone announced, “Hello. Peterson Marcus residence.”

“Hey, Linds,” the teen greeted his friend, instantly recognizing her voice.

“Can you hold on just a second?” Lindsay requested.

Before Justin could even respond in the affirmative, there was nothing except silence from the other end. He and Debbie shrugged at each other as they waited for Lindsay to return.

“Sorry about that, Justin,” Lindsay’s quiet voice came from the loudspeaker again a minute later.

The young man thought Lindsay sounded a bit uncomfortable. “Is this a bad time?” he questioned, “I can call back later.”

“No, not at all,” Lindsay replied. “I just wanted to move to a different part of the house.”

Justin couldn’t help wondering if Lindsay’s discomfort had something to do with Brian, but he decided he didn’t really care - as long as the brunet didn’t overhear the conversation, that is. “Listen, Lindsay, I actually need to talk to Melanie. Is she there?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” the blonde stuttered. “Just a minute and I’ll get her for you.”

Moments later, Melanie’s concerned voice issued from the loudspeaker, “Justin? Is everything okay?”

“Not exactly,” the young man responded. “Do you have a minute to give me some advice?”

After Melanie indicated she’d be glad to help, Justin relayed what had occurred when he’d tried to open a bank account that afternoon. He wound up the story with, “Debbie’s here with me now; she suggested I call you when I couldn’t think what to do.”

“We’ll figure this out,” Melanie reassured the teenager, who was becoming frustrated all over again. “I know the banking system doesn’t seem very friendly, but it’s actually for your protection too since you aren’t legally an adult.”

“Won’t Sunshine be able to have his own account?” Deb inquired loudly.

“I didn’t say that, Debs,” Melanie attempted to calm down the older woman. “There may be no way around the requirement that Justin open a joint bank account with a parent or legal guardian; however, I won’t know that for certain until I research all the options.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Justin squeaked out, embarrassed when his voice rose in pitch, as if it were just breaking.

“Don’t get discouraged,” Melanie insisted. “Give me a couple of days to dig around and then we can meet to discuss your options. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Justin responded in a dejected tone, not at all sure that he’d have a bank account before he turned eighteen.

Melanie, who couldn’t miss Justin’s despondency, reiterated, “We will find a solution, Justin.”

Debbie jumped in, “That’s what I keep telling Sunshine, not to give up.”

“How about we talk after Sunday dinner, Debs, and we’ll decide what to do then?” Melanie suggested.

“No dinner this Sunday,” the redhead reminded Melanie, “that’s the only day the repairman can look at my furnace. It’s gone wonky, and what with the cold weather moving in, I need to get it fixed. I’m damned lucky they’re willing to send someone over on a Sunday.”

“Oh, well I might still come over in the evening?” the lawyer offered.

“That’ll work,” Debbie agreed. “How about eight-thirty?”

After a time for them to meet had been established and the phone call had ended, the young man finally produced a slightly more optimistic smile when Debbie nudged him and suggested, “C’mon, let’s have some dessert. It’ll make us both feel better.”

“What do you have?” Justin inquired as his stomach let out a happy rumble at the thought of something sweet.

Both of them laughed as Deb started listing the options - rhubarb pie, lemon bars, a piece of Vic’s gingerbread cake, chocolate….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We almost didn’t get this chapter ready for your reading pleasure today, but we didn’t want to leave our faithful readers without a Sunday update. Your reviews keep us motivated, so please leave more comments :)


	9. Chapter 9

“Fuck,” groaned Emmett as he strained with exertion, sweat dripping off his forehead. He looked as dishevelled as Brian had ever seen him, his face red and his muscles quivering.

The brunet grunted in answer, his thighs burning with effort.

His flaming friend raised himself up again. “That’s right, baby, harder,” he gasped, eyes intent.

“Shut the fuck up, Honeycutt,” barked Brian, throwing the other man a sour look. Had he known the man wouldn’t shut up the whole morning, he would’ve never asked Emmett to join him.

The younger man huffed. “Don’t… call… me… Honeycutt,” he managed to get out in between heavy puffs of air.

Brian rolled his eyes, pulling himself forward. “You sound like a bad porno,” he commented.

“And you sound like a big pain in the arse,” retorted Emmett, “I’m doing my best over here.”

Brian looked at his friend skeptically. “Maybe if you stopped ogling the boxer over there, who by the way is totally straight, you’d have more energy to concentrate on your squats.”

“What are you talking about? I did like… twenty already,” argued Emmett, not tearing his eyes away from the muscled hunk who was pounding into a boxing bag in the corner of the gym.

The ad executive snorted. “You did exactly seven, Susan Powter,” he corrected the queen, “and you’re huffing and puffing like a steam train.”

Emmett finally gave up the pretense of exercising and sat down on his workout mat. “You know what? You keep doing your rowing thingy and leave me to admire Mr Bulging Muscle over there.”

Brian grinned, pulling himself forward on his indoor rower. “Which muscle are you talking about?”

“Oh shush,” the other man chided, “he’s gorgeous.”

“And straight,” repeated Brian, wiping sweat off his forehead.

Emmett shrugged. “Never stopped me before,” he bragged. “I think he bats for our team, though; he was definitely giving me the eye.”

Brian snorted. As if, he thought, he was never wrong about these things - Emmett was going to crash and burn.

After rowing strenuously for another half hour, Brian was ready to hit the sauna. Emmett had already sauntered in that direction twenty minutes ago, panting after the bewitching Mr. Muscle like a dog in heat.

Brian desperately needed some relief of his own and intended to follow up on the unspoken invitation from a dark-haired man just a couple inches shorter than himself and almost as fit. When he walked into the sauna, he discovered his potential trick sitting next to Em, the two men yakking away. Then he did a double take as he saw the bloke he’d been absolutely certain was straight caressing his friend’s thigh.

What the fuck? Was his gaydar broken? Even though Emmett was a flaming queen, there was no way he could be mistaken for a woman. Nah, the man was surely straight and just taking a walk on the wild side here on Liberty Avenue. Contented that he’d sussed it out, Brian ambled over to his trick of the hour and quirked an eyebrow at him.

Unhooking the towel from around Brian’s waist, the trick let it fall to the floor. His eyes glazed over as he leaned forward and inhaled deeply, letting out a lusty moan of appreciation for the brunet’s earthy, sweaty aroma. Groans echoed from around the room as the trick slowly licked his way up to the crown of Brian’s dick, swirling his tongue around the head, then gradually swallowing until the cockhead was lodged in his throat.

Brian let his head tilt backward, emitting an appreciative moan of his own. _Finally_ , a queer who actually understood how to give a blowjob. He obligingly widened his stance when the man reached between his legs to fondle his balls, rolling them between his fingers as he hummed around Brian’s cock.

Buttocks clenching as he imagined a slender digit circling his hole before pressing inward, the brunet came with a roar mere seconds later - the orgasm scrambling his brain. When he opened his eyes, Brian frowned in consternation at seeing dark hair instead of blond locks. He looked around for his Sunshine, thinking they must be out tricking together, before recognizing where he was. “Fucking Twat,” he mumbled, causing the trick to glance at him in confusion.

“Not you,” he grunted at the man, considering that more than sufficient explanation. His cock was already beginning to stir to the evident amazement of the trick.

“The rumors are true,” the bloke whispered reverently, “you really don’t have a refractory period.”

Brian ignored the snort from his somewhere to his left, motioning for the trick to turn over and rest his forearms against the bench. As the man eagerly complied, he vaguely registered Emmett turning over and bracing himself against the cedar wood next to his trick. While prepping the man with the packet of lube that had dropped to the floor when his towel had been discarded, Brian glanced to his left, where Straight Guy was doing the same for Em. He snorted in derision - the bloke’s ‘muscle’ was definitely overrated. The queen was in for a disappointing ride, he feared.

“Now, I’m ready now,” his trick begged. Brian quickly tore open the foil packet before unrolling the condom onto his dick and plunging into the welcoming warmth of the trick’s ass. His brow furrowed, however, when he realized that the man’s tunnel wasn’t as snug as he’d expected, unlike that of a certain blond. Maddened that he couldn’t stop thinking about the brat, he thrust harder into the dark-haired trick.

“Bugger off,” he growled when Mr. Muscle’s hand suddenly clenched around his left arse cheek.

“Ooh, Honey, don’t do that!” Emmett chided when he looked over his shoulder to find out what was making Brian so snarly. “Kinney’s an inveterate top; no one gets near _his_ ass.”

Brian could almost hear a certain teen giggling at that untruth. Since he wasn’t ready to admit that he was really beginning to miss Justin, he made a concerted effort to block the blond from his mind, rocking forward into that loose arse again and again. To move matters along more quickly, he reached around and began to stroke the  man in tandem with his thrusting motions. Shortly thereafter, the trick began to spurt all over the bench and the wall, his ass finally clamping down more tightly on Brian’s cock, providing the necessary friction for the brunet to come.

“You’d better practice your rectal exercises,” he warned as he unceremoniously pulled out and removed the condom, tying it off and tossing it into a trashcan in the corner. “No one’s going to want to fuck you otherwise.”

He ignored the squawking protests from the man, not in the least interested in what the bloke had to say for himself. Neither his trick nor Emmett’s were of any further relevance in Brian’s opinion. The brunet stretched out a hand to Em, who had collapsed onto the bench, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and dripping down his face. Unlike Brian, the queen wore a blissed-out expression, so Mr. Muscle had apparently performed more than adequately. That made Brian even more cantankerous; why couldn’t he find a halfway decent trick?

With Brian’s assistance, Emmett hauled himself to his feet, and the two men staggered toward the showers to clean themselves off. Afterward, as they headed toward the lockers to get dressed, they jokingly compared the attributes of their tricks. “Did you get a look at Mr. Muscle’s bulge?” Em exclaimed. “No padding at all, just ten-and-a-half inches of pure pleasure.”

“I got more of a look than I wanted,” Brian complained. “We were standing right next to each other, with you and my toy splayed out across the cedar bench in front of us.”

“What do you mean by that?” the outraged queen demanded. “The goods were as advertised.”

"You’d better start carrying a tape measure,” Brian critiqued, “that dick was seven inches max, although it was respectably thick.”

Emmett huffed, “My eyesight is just fine, thank you very much; if I did have a tape measure, I’d be proven correct. At least my gaydar isn’t faulty, unlike yours. That boy is as bent as a three-dollar bill.”

Brian scowled irritably, reiterating, “I’m never wrong. I’ll consult with a specialist about my gaydar; it must be on the fritz. Mr. Muscle’s orientation aside, my trick was much better endowed, exceeding expectations in both length and girth.”

Emmett grinned smugly, “Mr. Muscle did a much better job of satisfying me than your toy did for you. You’re in a nastier mood now than you were an hour ago. Besides that little problem with a loose ass, maybe it’s because your tricks are so boring,” Emmett contemplated. “Really, who wants a clone of themselves every single time? I thought your taste had finally improved after you got together with Justin but, alas, that’s not the case.”

Brian figured his glare must have subdued the outspoken queen since he didn’t say anything for else for a moment. Then, as they stepped out of the gym into pelting rain, he murmured, “Just so you know, Baby and I are going to dance the night away at the club tonight.”

“Fuck!” Brian groused as a car sped by, spraying water from the gutter onto his new Calvin Klein jeans and his Louboutin loafers, both of which he’d just donned for the first time that morning. His friend had adroitly skipped backward, avoiding getting drenched.

“Fuck!” he griped again when he looked at his mud-splotched jeep, which had just gone through the carwash the previous afternoon. He had been thrilled to find a spot right in front of the gym - no need to overdo the whole exercise schtick by walking to the gym, he had decided, especially with those thunderclouds looming overhead.

Goddammit, what was up with his friends being right lately? he morosely wondered as he stepped back to join his friend under the covered entrance to the gym. Cynthia had warned him that he shouldn’t wash his car when it was just going to immediately get dirty again; Em had correctly pegged that trick as queer; and Michael had repeatedly told him he shouldn’t keep fucking that blond brat.

As usual since the burglary, everything came back to that damned blond. None of this would be happening if the kid were just a little more responsible. Wait, had Em just said something about the teenager?

“What was that, Honeycutt?” he queried sharply. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Enough with calling me Honeycutt!” the queen exploded, “you know I hate that, _Bri_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian dismissively waved off Emmett’s protest, ignoring the nickname that none of his friends were supposed to use. “What did you just say about Babylon?”

Em petulantly crossed his arms over his chest, which was covered in a garish orange tee. “You could have just listened, you know. Since you’re rapidly reaching an advanced age, however, I wanted to tell you that your ex non-boyfriend and I will be tripping the light fantastic on Babylon’s dance floor tonight.”

Brian knew he should be grateful for the heads-up - he’d forgotten all about Emmett’s scheme to go dancing with Justin later this week - but all it did was make his mood even more sullen. Why should the teen, the source of all his problems, get to have fun while he was stuck with the munchers for company? A glum expression on his face, the ad exec refused to consider that he could go somewhere other than Babylon. The only saving grace was that neither Michael, who was working at the Big Q, nor Theodore, who was doubtless watching porn, was present to razz him about his predicament.

Hiding a grimace at the flamboyant queen’s reminder that he was in the countdown phase to his thirtieth year, Brian belatedly retorted, “Were you born at the turn of the last century? Only boring old farts talk about the ‘light fantastic’.”

“Pish,” Em sniffed, “then we’re going to shake our groove thang. Does that suit your majesty better?”

“What-the-fuck-ever,” Brian grouched as he tossed his gym bag into the backseat, “I won’t be there to watch you two nelly bottoms flailing around on the dance floor; I have _plans_.” With no clue as to what said plans might actually be, he slid into the jeep from the passenger side. Even with his long legs, he wouldn’t have been able to leap across the large puddle and reach the driver’s door without causing irreparable damage to his designer shoes. The cranky stud was already doubtful that they would survive the soaking they’d been subjected to a moment ago, but just in case… Another rushed shopping trip wouldn’t suit him at all, and he would rather not replace his footwear after owning them for only four days.

Once he was behind the wheel, Brian peeled out of his spot, sending water flying and making the agile queen jump back again. In the rearview mirror, he noticed Honeycutt giving him the bird. Brian dismissed thoughts of his irate friend and concentrated on the all-important question of how he was going to entertain himself tonight. An evening with the lesbians didn’t sound at all appealing.

 

After taking over from their colleagues who’d covered the night shift, Justin and Debbie bustled around the diner, making sure the booths and other tables were ready for the breakfast horde. “This may be a holiday, Sunshine,” the redhead opined, “but I reckon we’ll have as many hungry queers invading the place as any other Friday. Banks, schools, and both state and federal agencies may be closed, but the usual lot of retail workers will come trooping in any moment. And then there’s the lads who work construction - damned if those muscles don’t make my heart go pitter patter.”

“Your heart?” Justin teased with a saucy wink in Debbie’s direction.

“Pshaw!” Debbie cackled, swatting the teen with a dish towel as she passed behind him. “You’re getting far too cheeky, Kiddo.”

“I’m just copying my elders,” the blond impishly replied as he scooted out of range of the towel.

“Your elders!” Deb spluttered, momentarily at a loss for a retort. From the way her eyes were twinkling, it was clear to Justin that she was enjoying their raillery, so he prepared himself for a witty comeback.

At that moment, the bells from Our Lady of Fatima, the nearby Catholic church, began signalling the seventh hour of the morning. As Detective Horvath pushed open the door at the same time, Justin’s duffel bag in hand, the doorbell jangled, creating a musical cacophony - that was, thankfully, of short duration.

Debbie, who was unaware that the copper had agreed to retrieve the rucksack, glared at the detective. “Didn’t you finish up with your interrogation yesterday?” she inquired as she eyed him suspiciously.

The detective, whose rain-dampened gray suit was already rumpled, shifted nervously under the redhead’s accusatory stare.

“Well?” Debbie demanded. “I’m waiting for an answer, mister.”

“Debs, please, it’s okay,” Justin murmured, a broad grin on his face as he moved toward the older man.

His eyes having been riveted to the mistrustful redhead until then, Horvath flushed a bit as he finally noticed the teen. “Here you go, lad,” he stated, “one rucksack, as requested.”

“Ta, that’s a huge help,” Justin gushed, “now that homophobic prick, uh - I mean - teacher, won’t be on my case about a proper uniform. Though Mr. Dixon will undoubtedly find something else to carp about, he won’t send me to detention at least.” The teen winced as if that might have been too optimistic, quickly reaching out, tapping the wall, and declaring sheepishly, “Touch wood.”

Debbie couldn’t resist that opening, “Eh, c’mon, Sunshine. You know that’s not the right wood to touch for good luck.”

When the copper’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline at that risqué comment, the waitress didn’t back down, suggesting, “Maybe you should give it a try, bucko. Might be you’d solve cases more quickly.”

Evidently preferring not to engage the fiery waitress on _that_ topic, Horvath held out the bulging rucksack, “Definitely more than a uniform in here, eh?” He smiled at the ecstatic teen and jested, “How do you manage to tote around those brick-like textbooks?”

The blond flushed crimson as he accepted the duffel, letting it sag to the floor. Fuck! How embarrassing that the copper must have seen his red mesh top - who knew what the bloke had made of that? Grabbing onto the innocuous topic of textbooks, he babbled, “They’re probably heavier than bricks. The St. James faculty apparently believe that weighty tomes make for bigger brains.”

“Considering the way you trounced me and Vic at Scrabble the other night, they may be onto something, Sunshine.” Deb laughed goodnaturedly, the blond joining in.

As the teen once more thought about what a pleasure it was to be around a good sport and not a sore loser, the policeman asked, “You like board games?”

“Yeah, sure,” Justin shrugged, “who doesn’t?”

“We’ve always got some kind of game going in the breakroom at the precinct,” the detective volunteered. “I’m partial to checkers myself.”

“Huh, I’ve been known to play a few rounds,” Deb interjected, apparently warming up to the ‘crackpot cop’ a bit.

“Maybe we could set up a board here at the diner,” Justin suggested. “I bet it would be a big hit with the customers.”

“That’s a great idea, Sunshine,” Deb enthused. “I’ll take some money from petty cash and pick up a couple boards.”

Turning to the portly detective, she challenged with a snarky tone to her voice, “Are you ready to take on the competition? Kiki’s a champion checkers player.”

“I’d be happy to take on the lady,” Horvath responded, showing that he really had learned his lesson from the day before.

Justin beamed at the detective, recommending, “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll bring you the breakfast special.”

“I’d like that,” Carl replied, clearly relieved when Debbie accepted his answer without twitting him further. He slid into a booth near the front door and requested, “Do you think I could get some coffee right way? We policemen really _do_ survive mainly on caffeine.”

“Coming right up,” Justin responded, grabbing the freshly-brewed carafe as well as a cup and saucer.

“By the way, why does she call you ‘Sunshine’?” the copper inquired curiously, avidly eying the coffee that Justin was pouring into his cup. “I don’t remember Debbie using that nickname yesterday.”

“You know,” Justin mused, “I’m not really sure why she called me that when I met her.” Scuffing his right foot against the floor, he rather abashedly admitted, “I didn’t know what to make of Debbie at first, and I’m afraid I was kind of rude. I mean, that was just the second time I’d been on Liberty Avenue and, uh, I was still figuring out how to get what I wanted.”

“What was it that you wanted, son?” the gruff detective inquired in a kind voice.

“Ehm, Brian,” the blond truthfully responded, blushing furiously.

Horvath visibly managed to suppress an automatic wince. “You hadn’t known Brian long at that point, I take it,” he prompted.

“No, not long,” Justin agreed, “but I was, like, really attracted to him.” The teenager wasn’t sure how the conversation had veered into his relationship with his ex-lover, but he couldn’t figure out how to steer it in a different direction. He squirmed in embarrassment, the coffee almost sloshing out of the carafe.

“Relax, son,” the detective urged as he noticed the lad’s discomfort. “You can’t have made a worse prat out of yourself than I did yesterday.”

Reassured by that reminder, Justin murmured, “I think we’d better call it a tie. Anyroad,” he continued in an attempt to answer the man’s question, “Debbie called me Sunshine right off - maybe because my hair’s such a bright shade of blond - and the moniker stuck.”

The copper hmmed before observing, “I’d wager that nickname has stayed with you more because of your friendly smile than the colour of your hair.”

At that, Justin gifted the detective with a blinding grin, “I think that’ll be the official explanation if anyone else asks me about it from now on.”

The teen topped off the policeman’s mug of coffee, since the man had slurped down over half of it while they’d been chatting. “I’ll be back with your breakfast soon,” the blond informed him before returning the carafe to the hot plate and schlepping his rucksack to the breakroom.

 

After Justin got home that afternoon, pleased to have put in a six-hour shift at the diner, he regaled Vic with the story of how four colorfully attired drag queens had adopted two veterans who had wandered into the diner in uniforms from the Vietnam War era. “The vets really ate up the attention,” he informed Vic, “I don’t think anyone had properly recognized their service to their country before - what with the Second Indochina War being so unpopular.”

Vic shuddered, “I just escaped being drafted, since the war ended as I came of age. I didn’t believe we had any justification to go to war, but I’m still grateful to the men and women who served; if I’d been called up, I wouldn’t have dodged the draft.”

“I doubt I’d be so brave,” the teenager confessed, “especially after seeing those two blokes. One of them was badly scarred on the left side of his face, and the other was missing a hand.”

“You’re a courageous young man, Sunshine,” Vic claimed, placing a comforting hand on the youth’s arm. “You’d have done your duty.”

“Maybe…” Justin trailed off, lost in thought, before continuing, “You’d never know those two soldiers had been maimed, with how they flirted and bantered with the drag queens and everyone else in the diner.”

The excited teen reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill to show Vic. “The scarred guy slipped me an extra tip as they were leaving the diner. I thought at first that it was a fiver, which would already have been generous, but then I realized it was a fifty-dollar banknote. I was sure it was a mistake, so I started after them, but the fellow turned around and shook his head at me, mouthing, ‘Keep it’.” A bewildered Justin glanced at Vic, “I didn’t do anything special to earn a tip like that.”

“You must have been a breath of fresh air, Kiddo,” Vic declared, “your friendliness and smile charm everyone. You probably made those two GIs feel attractive and desirable. It’s good you didn’t chase after that serviceman and try to return the gratuity; you’d have wounded his pride if you’d done so.”

“Hmm, I think it’s my bubble butt rather than my smile that earned the tip,” the teenager jested.

“That’s what would have gotten a tip out of an old geezer like me,” Vic lustily affirmed. He leered at the teen as they climbed the last flight of stairs to the attic, which the two men had decided they should reconnoiter that afternoon and come up with a plan for the next day.

“Shit,” Vic commented as he looked around in dismay, carefully edging his way between stacks of boxes and an old upright piano that was missing some of its keys. “I don’t see how we’re going to get through all this junk this weekend.”

“We’ll manage,” Justin asserted confidently, right before sneezing repeatedly.

“Uh-huh, just like your allergy meds are going to keep you from getting sick?” Vic skeptically commented before emitting a mighty ‘Achoo!’ of his own.

“See,” the teen gasped between sneezes, “it’s the dust that’s the problem, not my allergies.”

“I’m going to give Sis a call and make sure she picks up some dust masks on the way home,” the older man decided. “Between all the dust bunnies, mouse droppings, and mildew, we’ll never last an hour otherwise.”

“I think I’ve got a decent sketch of the way things are currently arranged,” Justin coughed out a few minutes later, “so why don’t we confer downstairs about our plan of attack?”

“Let’s wet our whistles with beer while we do that,” the older man proposed, “just to eliminate any lingering dust mites.”

“Of course,” the teenager solemnly affirmed.

As the two men descended the stairs, the phone started to ring, so Justin raced down the remaining steps two a time, snagging the phone from the hook just as whoever was on the other end hung up. Shrugging, the teen grabbed two beers from the fridge, only for the shrill sound to begin anew.

Vic lifted the phone this time and greeted the caller with a hearty “Hello” while Justin uncapped their bottles.

“It’s Emmett, for you,” the older man announced moments later, swinging his hips in an unmistakable version of the cha-cha. “He’s planning for you young-uns to paint the town red - or Babylon at least.”

“Hey, Em,” Justin cheerily greeted his friend, accepting the handset from Vic and handing him a beer in exchange.

“Baby, are you ready to cut the rug? Get down? Boogie? Dance the night away?” Emmett barraged the teen, pausing dramatically between each question.

Once he’d stopped giggling, Justin exclaimed, “I am so ready!” his excitement turning his reply into a high-pitched squeal. The lad flushed in embarrassment, mortified that his voice had gone squeaky for the second time in as many days - especially when he saw Vic’s lips twitching as the man tried to suppress a smile.

“Shit, sorry, Em, didn’t mean to burst your eardrums,” he blustered. “It just seems like forever since I’ve enjoyed a night out.”

“Why, Sugar, you sound just like little ole me,” Emmett declared in a much higher register than his normal honeyed drawl, instantly putting the blond at ease. “And, in case you didn’t realize, that’s a compliment.”

Justin felt himself truly relaxing for the first time in a week. A night out with his flamboyant friend was exactly what the doctor had ordered. Covering the mouthpiece with the palm of one hand, he called out, “Hey, Vic, would it be okay if I invite Em over for dinner? I’m not sure what’s in the offing or if there will be enough.”

“Like Sis always says, ‘the more queers, the better,’” Vic responded. “I can’t imagine Debs cooking a meal that wouldn’t feed at least five hungry adults - unless a certain teenaged bottomless pit scarfed it all down,” he teased.

As if on cue, Justin’s stomach rumbled noisily, making the teen blush some more while Vic chuckled. “You’re going to need a snack to tide you over till dinner, Kiddo. Let me see what I can rustle up.”

“You want to come here for dinner?” the blond invited after removing his hand from the mouthpiece. “No idea what we’re eating, but Vic’s sure there will be plenty.”

“Oh, yeah, Baby,” Emmett exuberantly responded. “Tell Deb I vote for penne alla vodka, would you? Maybe we can prepare it together - another cooking lesson for you, Sweetie.”

“Penne alla vodka,” Justin repeated for Vic’s benefit. “Vic says you had him at ‘vodka,’” he joshed, the older man nodding in vehement approval.

“Vodka improves any dish or drink,” the queen verified. “What time should I be over there to begin imbibing?”

“Dunno, hold on,” the teen requested. After checking with Vic, he suggested, “Why don’t you come over at six o’clock? That’ll give us plenty of time to prepare the food, eat, and relax before we hit Babylon to work off the calories.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Em confirmed. “Well, maybe not literally, but I’ll definitely be attired in the finest club wear.” A note of concern in his voice, he asked, “Do you have any suitable clubbing clothes, Baby? I just remembered all your things are locked up in the growly stud’s loft.”

Justin happily reported, “Carl Horvath, the detective who is investigating the burglary, brought me my duffel bag this morning; he said the police don’t need it anymore. I had my sparkly red midriff top in there - the one you helped me pick out at Torso.”

“Perfect!” Emmett screeched, as the blond pictured his friend jumping up and down and applauding. “You pair that with your black jeans, and you’ll be fending off the tricks.”

“Ehm,” Justin cleared his throat before hesitantly inquiring, “do you know if Brian will be at Babylon tonight?” He paused, “He’s still barely speaking to me, and I’d rather not have his nasty temper ruin our fun.”

“Not to worry,” his friend reassured Justin, “I saw the Big Bad at the gym today. When I told him I was taking you out tonight, he begged off going to the club, indicating he didn’t want to watch us ‘flailing around’ on the dance floor. If anyone other than Brian had insulted me like that, I would have grabbed his nuts and twisted hard. From the stud, however, I know it’s just envy; I swear he doesn’t know his right foot from his left when he tries to dance.”

At first, Justin was simply relieved that Brian wouldn’t be at Babylon but, as Emmett nattered on about how dancing-challenged the brunet truly was, he began to laugh hysterically. He had extensive experience with Brian’s two left feet and had become quite adept at guiding the man around the dance floor - when the teen could get the older man to do more than shuffle in place, that is.

 

Speaking of Brian, the brunet was currently sitting at the munchers’ dining table, shovelling a yellowish goo into his son’s mouth.

“Ghaba,” Gus proclaimed, mashing the palm of one hand against his open mouth and then running that same hand through his own hair before his dad could stop him.

“I know, that crap might work better as shampoo than food, Sonnyboy,” Brian sympathized. The so-called banana looked absolutely revolting, and Gus evidently wanted none of it. He had already spit out one mouthful onto the brunet’s white Emporio Armani tee, his only remaining clean piece of clothing after getting splattered with gutter water outside the gym.

Grabbing a damp rag, the beleaguered father wiped off the tyke’s hands and mouth and then did his best to remove the goop from his son’s hair. He wanted to strangle his blonde friend; this wasn’t how he’d envisioned spending the remainder of the Veterans Day holiday. The brunet had expected to finally fill Lindsay in on the Kip Thomas situation and for her to commiserate with him. After all, he had made the sacrifice of heading home early, so that’s what _should_ have happened.

Instead, when he had stepped through the door in his muddied jeans and loafers, Linds had immediately placed Gus in his arms and then shrugged into her coat. “Thank goodness you’re home, Brian. I thought I was going to have to ring your mobile. Dusty and Marie have invited us out to dinner, and then we’re going to catch a show.”

Brian had simply gaped at the blonde, who was wearing a lacy, cobalt blue dress under her coat. Belatedly, he had noticed a smirking Melanie standing next to her in an elegant brown pantsuit.

Lindsay had just rattled on without pausing, “Emergency contacts are posted on the fridge, should you need them. I left instructions on the table for feeding Gus. It’s time for his ‘ghaba’ now,” she had instructed, “it’s in the jar on top of the table.”

Brian had blanched when she had referred to banana as ‘ghaba’. How was his son ever going to learn to speak correctly if his mother insisted on using baby talk? He hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise, though, Lindsay still bombarding him with information.

“I’m not sure when we’ll be home,” she had finally wound down, before bussing Gus and then Brian on the cheek. “Be good for daddy, Lambskin,” she’d told her son before flitting out of the house.

“No porn, Brian, not while Gus is awake,” Melanie had warned as she’d followed her partner. “You don’t want to warp his brain.”

Now, looking down at his banana bedecked-son, Brian murmured, “Never too young for porn, right Sonnyboy?” He glared in distaste at the two _Teletubbies_ videos resting atop Lindsay’s lengthy list of instructions. Now there was something that would warp any child’s brain, he mused. It would probably give them a distorted impression of their bodies too, watching all those little fatties cavort, desperate to work off an overconsumption of carbs.

His son apparently disagreed though, excitedly waving a pudgy hand toward the topmost video, which prominently displayed one of the creatures in a revolting yellow onesie. “Jushun!” the little boy cheered at the singing and dancing blob.

The brunet’s lips twitched. He supposed the rotund yellow ball did bear a vague resemblance to Sunshine although, for it to be a more accurate representation, the weight should be redistributed to its butt.

“Jushun,” his son insisted, bouncing up and down in his highchair.

“Okay, Sonnyboy,” the brunet sighed in resignation, “Justin it is.” After inserting the VHS tape into the player, Brian lifted his son out of his chair and carried him over to the couch. He settled down with his legs stretched out along the sofa, Gus curled up in the crook of his arm, babbling happily as four colorful, roly-poly dumplings frolicked.

The ad exec couldn’t make heads or tails of the show’s content, but his son was entranced, and that was all that really mattered. It did appear, however, that big butts were a prominently male-gendered characteristic. As his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, he decided he’d have to tease Justin about his female alter-ego. The sunshiny creature was almost as light on her feet as Sunshine - there was a definite resemblance after all. On that thought, exhausted from his stressful week, Brian fell soundly asleep.

Some time later, the brunet heard one voice cooing, “Oh, how sweet!” while another snarked, “He’s wheezing like a buzz saw.”

He flung up an arm to ward off a bright flash of light, barely registering the giggles and whispers about ‘blackmail material’. When the weight on his chest disappeared, he rolled over, snuggling deeper into the sofa and resuming his dream about a gorgeous young blond who was waggling his ass in his face...

 

As Justin went to close the front door behind himself and Emmett later that night, Debbie called out, “Have fun, boys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Vic chortled, “That leaves plenty of leeway. Just remember, it must involve cock.”

“Going on a manhunt,” Em warbled as he pranced down the sidewalk, Justin chuckling and joining in on the chorus.

Shortly after leaving Deb’s house, Emmett and Justin bypassed the line in front of Babylon, the hunky bouncer leering at the blond and chaffing, “Ah, yes, Vic, born in 1952. Welcome to Veterans Night at Babylon.”

“Still looking good for my age, right?” Justin greeted Oscar, the bouncer who’d let him in the first time he’d dared to visit the club. The russet-haired beefcake hadn’t even carded a wildly giggling Daphne, instead just waving the teens on with an indulgent smile.

“Exceedingly well-preserved,” the man agreed with a flirty wink, “although not more so than your companion.” He lasciviously looked Emmett up and down, the queen preening in his orange pleather pants and orangey-brown psychedelic shirt.

“Come find me when you finish your shift, Honey,” the southerner purred suggestively, “and I’ll show you my moves.” Emmett then grabbed Justin’s hand and pulled him toward the thumpa-thumpa resounding from the dance floor.

After they had checked their jackets, the tall queen suggested, “Let’s grab a drink before we start shaking our tail feathers,” already gravitating toward the bar.

“Um,” Justin uncertainly responded, as he tried to figure out how many drinks he could purchase with the twenty dollars he’d allotted himself for the night.

“Now, Baby, I asked you out, so the drinks are on me,” Em told the blond as he flagged down one of the bartenders.

The teen had no idea whether or not his friend had noticed his hesitation but couldn’t help feeling embarrassed by his straitened finances. “That’s awfully generous,” he stuttered, “but, are you sure?” He flushed as he confessed, “I don’t know when I’ll be able to reciprocate.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I expected you to treat me the next time?” Emmett declared. “Baby, I want you to save your hard-earned dollars. When you’re a famous artist, then it’ll be your turn take me out.”

Justin was strongly tempted to tell Em about his plan to repay Brian for his burgled possessions, but the more people who knew, the less likely his objective would remain private. He was sure Em would never intentionally reveal his plan, but who knew what might slip out when the easily excitable queen was amongst friends? Best to think about it later, he decided; it wasn’t like he was going to share his strategy at Babylon, while surrounded by gossip-addicted fags.

“Sweetie, have you ever had a cosmopolitan?” his friend inquired. “In addition to that delicious penne, it’s proof positive that vodka makes everything taste better.”

The teen rubbed his stomach as he remembered the tasty pasta they’d consumed for dinner; he hadn’t been able to resist a third helping. Even the good-natured ribbing about whether he was ‘eating for two’ and being a ‘growing boy’ hadn’t deterred him.

“With Daphne once,” Justin stated, paling as he recalled swilling alcohol with his best friend, who had sneaked a bottle from her parents’ liquor cabinet. They had spent most of the night puking their guts out after consuming over half of the contents. “Uh, I didn’t react so well,” he admitted without revealing any details.

“Got trolleyed, I bet,” Em responded with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Justin acknowledged sheepishly, “not all that hard to figure out, huh?”

“What teen doesn’t overindulge at least once?” his friend replied in amusement, before explaining, “Vodka neat, which I’m presuming is what you sampled, has an entirely different flavour from vodka mixed into a cocktail.”

Batting his eyes, which he’d highlighted with sparkly brown eyeshadow, at the muscular bartender, he queried, “Isn’t that right, Freddie?”

“That’s true,” the barkeep confirmed, “vodka takes on the flavor of whatever ingredients it’s mixed with. Thank god.”

“Mhmm, cranberry juice and Ketel vodka,” the tall queen theatrically kissed the fingertips of his right hand before flinging them outward in a ‘French chef gesture’, “simply to die for.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Justin laughingly conceded, “I’ll have a cosmopolitan.”

“Two cosmos coming right up,” Freddie stated, mixing their drinks while eying the two men appreciatively.

“Run a tab for me, would you?” Emmett requested. “Just add anything my young friend wants - cosmos, whiskey, water, whatever. I want him to stay well hydrated, and we may get separated in this crush.”

“Sure thing, Em,” the bartender assured the queen, “I know you’re good for it. Wish I could take it out in trade with you, but the boss frowns on that kind of payment,” he jested amiably as he finished preparing their drinks.

Moments later, cocktail in hand, Emmett exclaimed, “Look at all those scrumptious men in uniform!” turning around and leaning back, his elbows resting against the top of the bar.

Justin thought he espied the scarred fellow from the diner, a wide smile on his face as he danced with two other blokes, before the jostling throng hid him from sight. Hoping he would have a chance to boogie with the soldier sometime that night, the blond sipped at his cosmo. “Shit, Em, you were right. This is delicious!” burst out of the teen, as he barely refrained from downing the drink in one gulp.

Bestowing a gap-toothed grin on his friend, Emmett happily declared, “Another cosmo convert. I know that Teddy would love it too if he’d just give it a try. He’s so stubborn, though, sticking with bourbon and never trying anything else.”

“Will Ted be here later on?” Justin asked. He quite liked the self-deprecating accountant, although the man’s ego definitely needed some bolstering. Ted didn’t seem aware of his own understated sex appeal.

Pouting briefly, Em responded, “Teddy didn’t answer the phone this afternoon. And Michael told me last night that he’d be unavailable; he mumbled something about bidding on a butt plug and cock ring set to match his Avengers’ dildos.”

The two men looked at each other and rolled their eyes at Michael’s uninspiring plans for a Friday night.

“Uh, you don’t think Michael’s together with Ted, do you?” the teen inquired, a look of horror on his face.

“Shut your gob,” Emmett ordered, “Teddy got over his fixation on Michael eons ago.”

“What fixation?” the blond queried, unable to imagine a scenario in which the man with the dry sense of humor and rapier wit would be together with malapropistic Michael.

When he realized the blond was gaping at him, Emmett raised a hand to his mouth, “Oops. I forgot you didn’t know us when we discovered that little infatuation.” One hand fluttering in front of his face, the tall man insisted, “That’s neither here nor there. Old news. Teddy’s probably scoping out locations to set up a porn website. He’s tired of Wertshafter interrupting his lunch hour porn, so he wants to escape the man’s disapproval and set up his own business.”

“Does he have a porn star to draw in the viewers?” Justin avidly inquired.

“Oh, who knows?” Emmett pooh-poohed the subject. “Meanwhile, he’s missing out on all these uniformed hunks. That means more for us, Baby!” the queen announced, setting down his empty cocktail glass on the bar.

“It was a mint idea to offer men in uniform free entrance,” Justin remarked.

Freddie chimed in from the other side of the bar, “The boss is an astute businessman; he knew the uniforms would draw you civvies like bees to honey. He’s making money hand over fist, especially here at the bar.”

“Let’s show these boys some personal gratitude,” Emmett suggested, lifting his arms above his head and sashaying his way toward the middle of the jiving crowd.

Justin hastily swallowed the last of his drink before following in Emmett’s wake. After waiting on those two battle-scarred vets at the diner this afternoon, the blond felt strongly about showing his appreciation to members of the armed forces for their service. At the very least, he could dance with as many uniformed men as possible.

As the two gorgeous men gyrated to the beat, they attracted all sorts of admiring glances. The blond felt someone pinch his ass but just sighed, guessing his posterior would be decorated with bruises before the night was over. Emmett, who had apparently observed the surreptitious pinch, chuckled in his ear, “That’s the price you pay for possessing such a tantalizing bubble butt, Sweetie.”

When ‘Golden Brown’ poured from the speakers, Emmett expertly waltzed Justin around, the crowd moving back to give them space in which to dance. The queen twirled Justin a few times, the blond easily maintaining the rhythm. As he gracefully spun away from Emmett for the third time, a serviceman stepped forward and swept the teen away, twirling him around the floor before finally dipping him and then lifting him back up.

The young man sensed that the marine sergeant - he was pretty sure that was the correct military branch and rank - wanted to kiss him but was hesitant about doing so. High time, Justin determined, to stop pining after Brian and enjoy himself with someone who clearly desired him. It wasn’t as though he and Brian had ever had a rule about not kissing other men anyhow - they were free to kiss, suck, and fuck whomever they wanted.

Stretching up on his tiptoes, the blond placed a soft kiss on the man’s mouth. The sergeant’s lips parted and his tongue probed for entrance against the teen’s mouth, his hand caressing the bare skin of Justin’s back beneath the red midriff tee. The teenager shivered as their groins pressed together, both of them hard and aching.

Since he wasn’t ready to proceed further, Justin was grateful when Emmett’s “Woo hoo, you go, Baby!” gave him an excuse to step back.

Justin glanced around, blushing furiously when he saw not only Emmett but a number of other queers applauding. “Ehm,” the flustered teen floundered, not wanting the marine to think he’d been leading him on but having no clue how to extricate himself from this situation.

“Easy there, lad,” the sergeant teased, “I’m not expecting you to take me to the backroom, although I certainly wouldn’t object if you did.”

A drawling voice interjected, “How about accompanying me to the backroom instead, as long as my young friend doesn’t mind?”

Mumbling, “Feel free,” a stunned Justin watched as Emmett grabbed the marine’s hand and tugged him toward the back of the club. Damn, but that queen knew how to go after what he wanted, he marvelled.

After dancing with soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines for the next hour, Justin was ready for a break. He navigated his way to the bar, where he ordered a double shot of Beam and a bottle of water from Freddie, watching the heaving throng as he tossed back the bourbon and then sipped on the water.

“Have you ever considered dancing professionally?” a husky voice inquired.

When no one responded to the question, Justin looked around and discovered a forty-ish, slender, dark-haired man with a receding hairline eyeing him speculatively. Was this loser trying to pick him up? “Huh?” he queried in confusion. “Were you speaking to me?”

“I certainly wasn’t addressing Freddie,” the stranger dryly replied, “what with him lurching about like a drunken ox when he tries to dance.”

Justin wished he could ask Freddie just who this bloke might be, but the bartender was occupied serving thirsty patrons on the other side of the bar. The way the man was looking at him like he was a slab of prime beef was making the young man nervous. “Why’d you ask me that?” he blurted. “Are you having me on?”

“I was in earnest,” the man professed. “First of all, you can really dance. I was watching you from my office,” he motioned to a glassed-in room at the end of the catwalk, “from the moment you strutted onto the dance floor this evening. Beyond your dancing skills,” he prattled, “you’re a hot, young, blond twink with a luscious rear end.”

The teen was relieved when Freddie came over in response to the gushing bloke raising his hand.

“Boss,” the barkeep greeted the man, “what can I get you?”

“Did you want another bourbon?” the bossman inquired of Justin.

“Or maybe another Cosmo?” Freddie suggested.

“Um,” Justin hmmed indecisively, before requesting, “a Perrier, please, Freddie. I’m feeling dehydrated.” Like hell he was going to order booze with the owner of Babylon standing right there.

This time, the bartender waffled. “You buying for the lad, boss, or do you want me to add it to his tab?”

“I’m buying, of course,” the man barked, acting as if Freddie were an imbecile for not understanding that. “In fact, all of his drinks for the night are covered.”

“Oh, no, that’s too much,” Justin interrupted, “I’m here with a friend and he’s the one who’s running the tab, Mr....” The blond’s voice trailed off when he realized the man still hadn’t properly introduced himself.

It was the bartender’s turn to act as if his boss were too stupid for belief. “What? You didn’t introduce yourself, boss? I’ll wager you approached him like some sort of creepy stalker, just like you did with me three years ago.”

The bossman had the grace to look abashed, before sticking out his hand. “Arthur Smythe at your service,” he gallantly announced, shaking the teen’s hand.

“Justin Taylor,” the blond responded. Reassured by the camaraderie between Smythe and Freddie that the man _wasn’t_ a crazed stalker, he added, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“What a polite young man,” the bossman approved, “but there’s no need to call me ‘sir’. I’m not in my dotage just yet. You can call me Arthur for now and, once you start working for me, ‘boss’ will be fine too.”

Justin had to grin at Arthur’s confidence that he would end up working for him. “What kind of dancing did you have in mind?” he enquired, just as one of the club’s go-go boys leapt onto the bar and began shaking his ass in rhythm with the music.

Arthur cocked his head toward the bar-top dancer as a soldier reached up and slid a twenty-dollar bill under the hem of his tight red briefs.

The blond’s jaw dropped before he began to laugh helplessly. How ironic that he had an opportunity to become a go-go boy in the Pitts when he’d considered fleeing to New York to earn his living as one just this past weekend.

His brow furrowing, Arthur stated, “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re dismissing the idea out of hand, Justin. Between the generous salary and the tips, you could rake in quite a sum of money. Your muscular thighs, flexibility, creamy skin, beautiful features, bounteous bubble butt - and, of course, the way you move to the music - will have the queers of Liberty Avenue shelling out the tips.”

“Ehm, Arthur, I should probably tell you that I’m in school,” the teen sputtered. Surely the man wouldn’t be interested once he realized Justin was still in high school.

“Lots of university students work part- or full-time,” the bossman replied, frowning when the bar-top dancer stumbled and nearly knocked over their drinks.

“I meant, um, high school,” Justin quietly confessed, flushing when Arthur turned toward him with raised eyebrows, clearly taken aback.

“Granted, it’s a bit unusual for a high school student to work as a go-go boy, but it’s not unheard of. You’d be a natural - more fun than work, I’d think.” Glancing down at the legs outlined by Justin’s skintight black jeans, he wondered, “How’d you develop such muscular thighs? That can’t be from childhood dance lessons.”

Arthur had posed the question during a sudden lull between songs, so everyone in the immediate vicinity of the bar heard him. A colourful queen who was passing by quipped, “It’s all that vigorous fucking.” making everyone burst out laughing.

Justin’s face flushed bright red at that interruption, but he calmly asserted, “Actually, it’s because I played soccer my first three years of high school. I needed to fulfill the P.E. requirement, and soccer was probably the only sport I actually liked. Not only did I develop ‘muscular thighs’ as you said, I also learned a lot about tactics. I’m a small guy, yeah?” he mentioned the obvious. At Arthur’s encouraging nod, he continued, “So I wanted a game that didn’t rely so much on brute strength. I really enjoyed the strategizing and working together as a team to win matches. The coaches decided I should be a striker, since I’m apparently small and nimble, but I sometimes played midfield because I was good at stealing the ball from the opposing team.” The teen smiled proudly as he reminisced about his prowess on the field.

“St. James had great results,” he noted, “especially last year when we made it all the way to the eastern division youth playoffs. When I was outed at the beginning of this school year, however, I was immediately removed from the team. No one suspected I was a ‘pansy’ until then but, suddenly, the coaches and my teammates decided I was incapable of playing soccer,” he finished bitterly. “Fat lot of good that’s done them,” he concluded, “since the team’s now in next to last spot in the division, what with another key player transferring schools.”

“Well,” Smythe consoled, “it may all work out to your benefit because you’re a helluva dancer. Would you be interested in working for me, do you think?”

Justin had been trying to run the pros and cons through his head while they chatted and had determined that he liked the idea of being a go-go dancer. It would be great to get paid for dancing, and it would make repaying Brian decidedly more easy. “Yes, I’d like to work for you,” he stated firmly, before adding a caveat. “It would have to fit around my school schedule and working at the diner, though.”

Arthur handed Justin a business card. “Why don’t you give me a call in the next couple of days and we’ll arrange a time to meet? We can discuss what hours you might work and prepare a tentative contract at that time.”

“I’d like that, Arthur,” the teen responded, beaming at the older man. “I’d better practice my dancing,” he laughed, shimmying away from the bar.

Smythe shot him a quick salute as he disappeared into the horde of dancers.

Shortly before three that morning, as they staggered toward Debbie’s house arm in arm, a bewildered Emmett related, “It was so weird when I went to pay for our tab, Sweetie. Freddie was busy tallying the intake for the night but Rico, the other bartender, told me the entire bill had been comped.”

“Oh, about that,” Justin said and then proceeded to lay out Arthur’s offer for him to work as a go-go boy.

“Baby,” an ecstatic Emmett squealed, “the tricks will be falling all over themselves to get a piece of you! You have to promise that I’ll be the first one to slip a tip into your boy shorts, okay?” The queen burbled on, “You do have some sexy underwear, don’t you? Tighty-whities just won’t do.”

The blond looked at his friend askance, as he tried to figure out how Em had become familiar with his style of undies.

“Oh, Sweetie,” Em chortled, “it’s not like I’ve never seen Brian pawing at that boring underwear.”

At the reminder of his ex lover, Justin speculated that the brunet probably wouldn’t give a damn when he saw him shaking his booty atop the bar. Wistfully, the teen wished he could somehow make the man jealous. Wait a minute, he reflected - if he were strutting his stuff in sexy shorts and bopping to the beat, Brian would surely hanker after his ass.

“What kind of underpants do you think would suit me best?” he asked his fashion-minded friend for advice, anticipating all those horny fags - one in particular - salivating over his extremely fine bum.

The queen immediately launched into a description of styles and colors. “Really, truly,” he maintained a few minutes later, as they entered Deb’s house, “leopard print briefs are all the rage.”

“Those just aren’t me, Em,” Justin asserted, playfully pushing the taller man toward the couch.

The queen wearily slumped down until he was lying curled up on the sofa - which sagged in the middle and was far too short to accommodate his long frame. “I do declare," he mumbled, “entertaining those veterans has worn out this normally indefatigable queen.”

“You won’t get any rest if you try to sleep on that couch,” the teen stated in concern. “Why don’t you take the bed, and I’ll sleep down here?”

The only answer was a snuffling snore. Justin grinned as he grabbed a pillow and a couple of blankets from the linen closet, slipping the pillow under Em’s head and draping the blankets over his friend.

After pulling off his clothes and sliding under the covers in his upstairs bed, Justin drifted off to visions of himself dancing in racy red briefs -  Brian at his feet, licking his lips in desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested in hearing the song to which Justin and Emmett were dancing, you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWAsI3U2EaE  
> Also, if anyone's interested in seeing Justin's very 2000 red crop top, you can see it here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=9


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to our attention that several of our readers are becoming impatient with the slow progress of Brian and Justin's relationship. We felt a bit confused about that at first as the boys have been apart for barely a week, but then we realised that not everyone has cottoned on that our chapters consecutively describe Brian and Justin’s story day by day.

“You really do have the right moves, kid,” the marine teased as Justin refilled his coffee cup.

The teen grinned at the handsome man he’d danced with the night before. “I can pour coffee with the best of them,” he bantered with the African-American sergeant.

A warm laugh was his answer.

When Emmett had awakened early that morning - his hair sticking up in two tufts on the sides of his head, making him look like a horned owl - he mumbled that he needed to get home and freshen up before meeting Dijon at the diner for breakfast.

“Dijon,” Debbie cackled as she prepared a grocery list, “is he the mustard on your pickle?”

“Mhmm, he surely is tasty,” the tall queen confirmed with a sated grin, “but it’s more the other way round. I’m the mustard; he’s the pickle.”

“Who’s Dijon?” the teen inquired; he didn’t recall Em mentioning anyone by that name.

A dreamy look on his face, Em responded, “That handsome drink of water you danced with last night.”

“Uh, I danced with a lot of guys last night,” Justin stated, unable to decipher whom the queen was referring to.

“But you only waltzed with one of them,” came the clarification.

“Waltzing,” Debbie screeched, “at Babylon? Why the fuck would you have been waltzing?”

His confusion clearing, Justin explained, “It suited the music. Em was twirling me around to this one song when a nicely built marine cut in. He was mouth-wateringly good-looking, and he moved as well as Emmett.”

“I can verify that he is a smooth mover, alright,” the flamboyant queen attested, smiling smugly.

The blond grinned slyly and quipped, “That must have been quite some visit to the backroom if you made a date with the man for breakfast.”

“Oh, it was, Honey,” the queen agreed, “that kiss you enjoyed being only the tiniest foretaste.” Em, who had finally managed to heft himself off the sofa, jumped back in fright as he’d caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror. 

“That’s quite the bedhead,” a voice rumbled from the stairs. “I came down to see what the merriment was about, and now I understand,” an amused Vic noted.

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” Em exclaimed in horror, turning away from the mirror to look at the pajama-clad older man, who was leaning against the bannister partway down the stairs. “I need to toddle on home right now if I’m going look like my usual marvelous self by the time I meet Dijon.”

And with that, Emmett rushed out the door without saying goodbye, leaving the other three chuckling at his dramatics.

“So what was that about a kiss between you and Dijon?” Deb had quizzed the teen on their way to the diner after they’d said farewell to Vic, the man promising to prepare a pizza for them to nosh on following their attic explorations later today. “And, for Pete’s sake, how did the man end up in the backroom with Em after kissing you?”

Justin flushed, knowing he shouldn’t have expected Emmett’s offhand remark about that kiss to get past Debbie. In fact, he suspected Em’s comment had been intentional, meant to divert attention from himself. The teen elaborated that although he’d been attracted to the marine, he hadn’t wanted more than a kiss. 

“Do you think it’s serious?” the redhead questioned. “I’ve never seen Emmett so interested in a man after having already fucked him.”

“Maybe,” Justin speculated. “After all,” he joshed, “not only can the two of them dance… they’re both  _ tall _ .”

Shortly before they’d reached the diner, the teen requested, “Hold up a sec, Deb. I, uh, have something to tell you.” At the redhead’s raised eyebrows, he proceeded to inform her about Arthur offering him a job, causing the waitress’ eyebrows to rise in consternation.

“You sure this guy is on the up and up, Sunshine?” she asked with a worried frown.

“He seems legit,” the teen assured his benefactress, “and I’m not going to sign a contract until Melanie looks it over.”

“Me and Kiks will miss your smiling face at the diner,” Deb commented despondently, assuming that Justin would only want the higher wage from go-go dancing.

“What?” Justin squawked in alarm. “Heck, Deb, there’s no way I’m quitting my job at the diner. If it were one or the other, I wouldn’t even consider the go-go gig. I like the idea of earning money a little faster to pay Brian back, though. And, well, I love to dance,” he mumbled, “so it might be fun.”

Somewhat mollified, the motherly woman gave Justin a hug before taking his chin in her hands and admonishing, “You’d better take care of yourself, Kiddo; you’re already stretched thin. If two jobs and school get to be too much, I expect you to dump the second job, okay?”

“You’ve got it, Debs,” Justin had readily agreed before they entered the diner.

It had been a fairly quiet morning, many of Liberty Avenue’s queers apparently sleeping in after celebrating the first of two Veterans Nights that Babylon had organized to attract more clubgoers, with the official holiday actually falling on Saturday. The slow start to the day allowed Debbie and Justin plenty of time to scope out the budding relationship between Emmett and Dijon. The two men were - as the flaming queen had exuberantly declared on his way to Dijon’s table - getting on ‘like a house on fire’.

After Em had introduced Debbie to Dijon, she grilled the queen as to whether he knew ‘this Arthur fellow’. Emmett shook his head, replying that he’d never met the man. “I recognize the name, though, and I’ve caught a glimpse of him a time or two,” he enthused, “so I’m sure the offer is above board - such a grand opportunity for Baby!”

“Hmm,” Dijon interjected, turning to Emmett, “I don’t think I’d like watching  _ you _ shake your ass in front of all those horny fags.”

“Oh, pooh,” the queen pouted, “don’t be a spoilsport.”

Dijon cautioned, “I’m just saying that Justin should maybe think twice about the offer.” He’d looked at the teen and continued, “Plus, dancing on the top of a bar for hours on end may not be nearly as much fun as you anticipate. I reckon you’ll be dragging by the end of your shift.”

Nodding vehemently in agreement, Debbie sent a speaking look at the teen. Justin didn’t change his mind, however; he couldn’t think of any other way he could so quickly earn money to repay Brian. Especially while doing something he liked.

Now, it had just turned ten o’clock, Em having departed a little while ago for his shift at Torso after exchanging a lingering kiss with the studly sergeant. Debbie had headed out for her morning break at the same time, muttering something about stopping at the local farmers’ market for some eggplant and fresh herbs.

After glancing around the diner to make sure that none of the handful of patrons wanted anything, Justin slipped into the booth across from the marine. “So, you really like Emmett, huh?” he enquired. The sergeant seemed like a good bloke, but the teen wanted to suss out his intentions.

Em might prattle on about just wanting a fuck, not a boyfriend, but Justin didn’t think that was really true - the man’s insouciant facade was covering up a vulnerable core. From what the blond had observed, the queen always made an effort to get to know his tricks - unlike someone else he knew - chatting away with them about where they were from, what they did, whether they were Madonna fans. This was the first time since he’d met Em that Justin had known the queen to arrange a date, however, and the teen didn’t want him to get hurt. While Justin might not be able to prevent that, he could at least chat up Dijon and learn a bit more about the man.

The sergeant grinned at Justin as if he had guessed why the teen was interrogating him, but found it amusing. “That I do lad,” Dijon responded amiably, “but I just re-upped for another tour of duty. Even though I despise ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’, I feel strongly about serving my country; I’m a third-generation marine. Unfortunately, except when I’m on leave, I pretty much have to stay in the closet - which nixes the slightest chance of a relationship.”

Squirming a bit in his seat since this truly was none of his business, the blond nevertheless persisted, “Have you told Emmett that?”

“Yeah, he knows I have to report back to Quantico on Monday,” the marine replied. “I could be deployed anywhere at the drop of a hat, so we’re going to be pen pals for now.” Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, “Is that okay with you?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” the chagrined teen stuttered. “I know it’s none of my beeswax.”

“I’m glad he has a caring friend like you,” Dijon commented with a lopsided half-smile, “you’ve got his six.” The sergeant looked like he was about to say something else, but then the bell over the door jangled as more customers flowed in.

“Later,” Justin shrugged in farewell as he stood up to take their orders, Dijon nodding in acknowledgement.

The blond was grateful when Debbie returned shortly thereafter, as more and more queers streamed into the diner over the next hour. “I guess they all stopped lollygagging at home,” an out-of-breath Deb gasped at one point, “and came here instead.”

Around eleven-fifteen, some of the customers finally left, freeing up a couple of tables. Justin quickly cleared them and as soon as he finished, two guys in motorcycle leathers immediately claimed one table, while a group of lesbians with a young child seated themselves at the other booth. Justin leaned down to gravely shake the toddler’s hand, making the women laugh. The mothers beamed at him in thanks when he brought a highchair to the table and helped settle the tyke into it. The boy, apparently enraptured by the blond’s gleaming smile, reached up and patted him on the mouth.

“Oh, dear,” one of the women exclaimed in consternation at the smear left behind on the blond’s cheek. “I thought I’d gotten all the cherry Kool-Aid off Kevin’s hands.”

The teen waved it away as being of no account. “It can’t compare to Deb giving me a smooch,” he joked, motioning toward the redheaded waitress at the back of the diner. “I’m used to removing lipstick, so a bit of Kool-Aid won’t give me much trouble.”

The lesbians giggled in response, Debbie being quite famous on the Avenue for how she looked after _her_ boys.

After delivering the orders from both tables to the kitchen, the young man efficiently started another pot of coffee brewing. The doorbell jingled again, and turning around, Justin discovered piercing hazel eyes studying him from the other side of the counter. Although his heart began racing, the teen affected a calm demeanor - he was _not_ going to apologize again, nor was he going to behave like a timid little faggot. “Good morning, Brian,” he greeted his ex-lover cooly.

 

Earlier that same morning, Brian was feeling groggy after sleeping longer than twelve hours - completely unheard of for a man who thrived on no more than six hours of shuteye per night. He needed to piss but couldn’t summon the energy to stand up from the sofa.

The brunet ignored the lesbians as they traipsed through the living room, merely grunting in response to Lindsay’s query as to whether he wanted breakfast. Ridiculously, despite the pressure from his full bladder, the brunet found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. A nap sounded like a great way to start off the day, he ruminated.

It was only when Melanie kvetched, “Jesus, Brian, move your smelly lard-arse off the sofa,” that he roused himself slightly.

Still sprawled out on the sofa, Brian announced self-righteously, “I lost five ounces this past week.”  

The news didn’t seem to impress the bulldyke lawyer, who retorted, “The other two thousand, four hundred ounces still need to get off the sofa.”

Brian’s brow furrowed as he tried to calculate how many pounds that made, but ultimately gave up. His brain wasn’t capable of complex mathematical equations this early in the morning.

When Melanie related, “Tannis and Phillip from the GLC are coming over in an hour. Do you want to be here when they arrive?” a sudden surge of energy had Brian leaping off the sofa, almost toppling over the coffee table in his haste to escape. Fuck, no! He did not want to see those two sententious prigs; they would completely ruin his day.

The brunet hurried up the stairs, figuring a shower would wake him up, but the nearly scalding-hot water didn’t revive him as expected. He had to dial the knob to freezing cold before he finally began to wake up. Where was that bratty teenager when he was needed? the brunet vaguely wondered. He could do with someone to soap his back and shampoo his hair...

As he stepped out of the shower, Brian realized he’d forgotten to grab clean clothes on the way to the bathroom. He shrugged, not caring if one of the girls did espy him as he traipsed to the hallway closet - where he’d had to cram in his designer clothes for the duration of his stay with the munchers. That was the only available closet space since the girls’ clothing had overflowed into his son’s wardrobe. Anyroad, Linds had seen it all before, even if that had been back in college when they were both high as kites. The brunet doubted he could shock Melanie, and she wouldn’t have the least interest in ogling his manly form anyway.

Brian almost discarded the candy-pink bath towel, since he didn’t want to be caught dead wearing such a revoltingly feminine hue, even if it were merely a towel. Best not to give the girls a reason to lecture him for running around in the buff, however, not if he wanted to flee before the GLC muppets arrived.

Hotfooting it downstairs, the brunet reached the closet without incident. He snatched a pair of black Tommy Hilfiger jeans - not his first choice, but they’d do since his Calvin Klein ones had been drenched in scummy sewer water. Not for the first time that week, his brow furrowed in annoyance at his limited options. Not only did he still need to replace more than ninety percent of his wardrobe, he’d also had to settle for inferior options when he’d gone shopping, selecting some of his tees and jeans from last season’s offerings. He normally wouldn’t wear a Ralph Lauren shirt - the brand was too hetero, and Ryder was always clad in some Polo item or other - but this shade of forest green did bring out the green flecks in his eyes, so he had succumbed to the urge to purchase the t-shirt.

Muttering irritably about the substandard clothing he was being forced to don, Brian shut the closet door. As he did so, he felt the towel slide off his hips, the pink cloth now dangling from the door jamb.

A high-pitched titter assaulted the brunet’s ears, one that did _not_ belong to either Lindsay or Melanie. Spinning around, his clothes draped over one arm, his balls trying to crawl up inside his body, Brian stared in horror at the pasty-faced queen mincing toward him. Shit, it was that dweeb from the Gay and Lesbian Center - Podrick, Philpot, something-or-other beginning with the letter P. He had no interest in learning the man’s name.

In a falsetto voice, the flouncing pillock shrilled, “It’s very generous of you, Kinney, to volunteer your advertising expertise to raise funds for a shelter for homeless teens.” The man didn’t look at Brian’s face while he was speaking, his eyes fastened on Brian’s cock, which had shrivelled to just a couple inches in length. The stud feared it might never recover from this experience.

“No, it’s out of the question that we’ll work with him,” another voice hissed as Brian stood there in stunned silence.

Looking past the prancing git, Brian noticed Tannis, the supercilious head of the GLC, for the first time. What the fuck were they doing here already? the ad exec wondered. There was no way he’d been in the shower longer than twenty minutes. He should have had plenty of time to vanish before the center’s representatives arrived.

He narrowed his eyes at his blonde friend, who looked away furtively, insisting, “Tannis we need an effective fundraiser. Brian can deliver that.”

“What’s he going to do? Open a bordello for a day?” the pinch-faced woman inquired with a sneer. “Who would pay for _his_ services?”

“I would,” Phillip immediately claimed as he drooled over Brian’s magnificent body.

As if he’d touch that pipsqueak with a ten-foot pole, the brunet disdainfully thought, shoving Philibert out of his way and advancing on the two women. “You couldn’t possibly pay me enough to promote your organization,” he taunted. “You’re all a bunch of hypocritical, wannabe heteros.”

“Brian,” the blonde protested, a hurt look on her face, “surely you don’t feel that way about me and Melanie.”

“I don’t appreciate being blindsided, Lindsay,” the adman growled, “and it’s not like you don’t know my opinion of these sexless wonders. I can’t figure out why you waste your time on them.”

“Maybe because they _do_ give a shit about the community,” the bulldyke lawyer fulminated, appearing from the kitchen with Gus in her arms. Glaring daggers at Brian, she seethed, “We all need help sometimes, right?”

Brian blanched at that reminder of the Kip Thomas situation. Was Mel intimating that - even though he was paying for her legal expertise - she wouldn’t represent him if there weren’t some quid pro quo for the GLC? Was that legal, never mind ethical? The brunet decided he’d best back down for now, ungraciously tossing out, “We’ll talk about it later.”

As he stalked away, he snarled at Tannis’ hapless cohort, “Fuck off, Pippin.” He could feel the twit staring at his arse as he climbed the stairs. Someone had better shoot me, he mused, if I’m ever that hard up…

Fifteen minutes later, Brian’s jeep screeched to a halt before reversing into a spot in front of the diner. Parking karma was on his side for a change, but it did little to ameliorate his foul mood. The rain drummed onto the cement in counterpoint to his sour muttering about, “Fucking Tannis, Fucking Philander, fucking Lindsay,” as he jerked open the door to the eatery. He almost backed out of the diner again, though, when the cacophony arising from the horde of hungry queers hit him. Unfortunately, every restaurant was likely to be jam-packed on this Veterans Day Saturday.

The tyke in a highchair at the booth nearest the door let loose with a particularly piercing shriek, banging its hands against the tray, and Brian found himself seriously contemplating finding a different place to eat after all, before resigning himself to staying where he was. Shaking his head to restore his hearing, the brunet grouched to himself, “Thank fuck my Sonnyboy never behaves like that.”

He realized he must have spoken quite loudly when the lesbos at the table all shot him dirty looks. What did they fucking expect? They should be grateful he wasn’t going to sue them for damaging his eardrums.

After scanning the greasy spoon to see whether any of the gang had claimed a booth and not noticing any of his friends, Brian sulked his way over to a stool at the counter - the only free seat in the place. The brunet balanced himself carefully on the wonky stool - naturally it was the one that needed stabilizing - rested his elbows on the bar, and stared at Justin’s ass while he waited for the blond to serve him. He’d rather not have to deal with the little shit, but it was far better than sipping tea with the munchers, Tannis, and Philmore while planning a stupid flaming fundraiser. Christ, Lindsay had probably brewed some of that noxious chamomile tea that tasted like cat piss.

A dispassionate voice saying, “Good morning, Brian,” pulled him out of his ruminations, and he found himself staring into chilly blue eyes. What right did the blond have to be miffed with him? Brian nearly got up and walked out in a huff, but then he felt a twinge of concern. The lad looked a bit peaked. Was he getting enough rest? Eating enough? Or was he just coming off a high from his night at Babylon? The brunet supposed it couldn’t hurt to inquire into the teen’s well-being; it wasn’t as if he were going to have a heart-to-heart with him, much less invite the teen to move back into the loft. Fuck, he couldn’t even move back into the loft himself, which reminded him that he wanted to give that inept gumshoe a call later that day.

In the meantime, he wanted to find out what was up with Justin without actually appearing as if he cared. “Justin,” he belatedly nodded in acknowledgement of the teen’s greeting. Flipping over the coffee cup in front of him, he pushed it toward the blond in indication of what he was jonesing for.

The lad looked as though he were suppressing a smile, commenting, “You’ll have to wait till it’s done percolating.”

Fuck small talk, Brian decided - it wasn’t his forte. “Did you girls enjoy yourselves at Babylon last night?” he inquired with a smirk. “Auntie Em let it slip that you would be ‘tripping the light fantastic.’”

The look of amusement on the teen’s face deepened as he regarded Brian, the brunet scowling as he inferred that Justin had seen through his facade of indifference after all. He really didn’t care, he reassured himself; he was just being polite. Brian quashed the tiny voice in his hindbrain which was snickering that he didn’t do polite.

Fortunately, the teenager began babbling about all the handsome blokes at the club the previous night, waxing ever more enthusiastic as he described the hunks he had danced with. The brunet started to get a bit irritated - had the kid replaced him already? He seemed to be very sweet on the guys he talked about. It didn’t matter that Brian was clearly over the teenager; Justin should still be pining for him, shouldn’t he? After all, the twat had constantly been professing his love for Brian. The ad executive decided to take it as a confirmation of what he had believed all along - love was meaningless bullshit. That’s why he’d never get involved in such a non-relationship again. He’d stick with fucking for a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of bullshit.

“What was that?” he queried sharply, roused from his moment of introspection when the blond rattled off something about go-go boys and dancing atop the bar.

“Are you getting hard of hearing?” Justin snarked as he filled Brian’s cup with freshly brewed coffee. “Maybe you should see an otolaryngologist.”

Brian motioned for the teen to stop pouring, stirring in his customary five heaping spoonfuls of sugar before objecting, “My hearing is fine. I just got bored with your description of all those trolls.”

“Uh-huh,” the blond replied skeptically. When Brian quirked an eyebrow, he reiterated, “Arthur suggested I’d make a great go-go dancer, and I think I’m going to take him up on his offer and accept the job.”

“Smythe offered you a job?” the flabbergasted ad exec repeated. This was something he never would have foreseen happening; the kid wasn’t even eighteen yet, for Chrissake. He hadn’t heard any nasty rumors about the current owner of Babylon, but something about this just didn’t sit right with him.

“Why is that so surprising?” Justin responded defensively. “He said I was one of the best dancers he’s ever laid eyes on.”

“Well, of course he’d say that,” Brian almost rolled his eyes, “he was trying to butter you up. That job isn’t for you, though; I think you should reconsider.”

Justin shot him an offended look. “You what?”

“How the fuck do you think the go-go boys get through those long shifts?” Brian retorted. “They take drugs or they’d never be able to keep going.”

“Big glasshouse!” the teen jeered, his face flushing with anger. “You’re the one who introduced me to the joys of the drug alphabet, with a serving of Special K for breakfast, remember?”

“The difference is that I’m not addicted,” the brunet answered firmly. “I don’t pop pills to get through the workday.”

“Well, I’m not going to take pills at all, so there’s no way I’ll become a junkie,” Justin contended, “but I love to dance and this would be a great way to earn some cash.”

“When did you become so mercenary?” Brian was genuinely puzzled. The kid had free room and board at Deb’s, and he was already working at the diner. Wait a minute… “You’re not quitting this job to become a bar-top dancer, are you?” he inquired suspiciously.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Justin railed, “but I’d never leave Debbie in the lurch like that.” The teen made a visible effort to compose himself before elaborating with a shrug, “If I can’t handle two jobs, I’ll quit the dancing gig.”

“Look, Kid, we’re never going to be together again,” he began, ”but I still want you safe. Okay?” The words were out of his mouth before he could properly filter them, and Brian realised that he had just acknowledged he still cared for the teen, even though he hadn’t even admitted it to himself yet. He quickly brushed that aside. “What’s the rush to amass so much money, anyroad?”

“I want to go to art school,” Justin confessed - not lying but not quite telling the full truth either, “and it’s really expensive.” Thank goodness he had a believable excuse ready, the teen reflected; he didn’t want Brian to figure out his plan before he could make a sizable deposit to cover the burgled goods. And he did very much want to attend art school, although he couldn’t actually imagine acquiring sufficient funds to do so.

“You won’t be attending university at all if you overdose on drugs,” Brian almost snarled. “Or, you could get mugged when you’re walking home in the middle of the night. You need to take care of yourself.” Brian tried to get through to the teen that the job mightn’t be safe for a number of reasons.

“I’ve already told you that I won’t do drugs. And I’ll be careful when I get off work; it’s not like I’m going to be walking down any dark alleys.” Justin stubbornly elucidated.

The teen was perplexed by Brian’s inquisition. It was almost like the brunet truly still cared about him, the way he was being so cautionary. He found himself thinking back to the previous Saturday and the burglary, once again reviewing his actions that morning as he had left the loft. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself setting the alarm, just before he had slid shut and locked the door. He sighed. He must be remembering it wrong, though, since Brian maintained that it hadn’t been set.

“Yoo-hoo!” a gaudily attired drag queen called from a booth into which six friends had wedged themselves. “We’re still waiting for our Pink Plate Specials.” That put an end to their conversation as Justin scurried around to serve the hungry horde.

It was Debbie who ended up taking Brian’s order for an egg white omelette, delivering it fifteen minutes later. “You going to Babylon tonight?” she inquired, chewing vigorously on a stick of gum.

Brian swallowed a bite of egg white that had the consistency of rubber. The dishwasher must be manning the cooker again; it was a disaster every time the chef gave in and allowed the Finnish bloke to experiment - bloody well every dish ended up tasting like fish. He would have to head somewhere else for his lunch after all. Next time he’d just ask who was at the cooker, and if it was the Viking again, he should order the fish tacos with mango sauce.  

After pushing the plate away in disgust, Brian cocked an eyebrow at his surrogate mother. Why had she asked if he would be at Babylon? The redhead knew very well that he could be found at the club nearly every weekend, most weeknights too for that matter. “Spit it out Deb,” he dryly encouraged, “you must want something to ask such a banal question.”

“Look, Honey, I know you’re not so fond of Sunshine right now, but I’m worried about him,” Debbie confided. “Some fellow named Smythe has offered Justin a job as a go-go boy, and the kid refuses to consider that it might not be such a great idea.” She continued fretting, “Not only is Sunshine going to wear himself down to a frazzle, going to school and holding down two jobs, it’s also not really safe for a seventeen-year-old to be out by himself so late at night.”

“Preach,” Brian mumbled inaudibly. It wouldn’t do for Deb to hear him and think that he cared for the teen - or something. Begrudgingly, as if he hadn’t already decided to check out whether this Smythe fellow was trustworthy, he griped, “What do you expect me to do about it? Let the kid make his own mistakes.”

“Listen, Brian,” Deb admonished, “that kid is a member of our family, and I expect you look out for him, same as you would for Michael. Capisci?”

Just when did he become responsible for the blond as well as Michael? Brian speculated. Next thing he knew, he’d be in charge of everyone’s well-being. Was that why all the nagging, bullying women in his life were having a go at him today? Good thing it was the weekend, or Cynthia would undoubtedly be adding her two cents’ worth too.

When the redhead clouted him on the head, exclaiming, “Show some respect, buster,” he wondered if she’d somehow read his mind. She could read him better than anyone else except that blond muppet, he reflected ruefully, but surely she wasn’t actually clairvoyant? “Besides,” Debbie asserted, a wicked twinkle in her eyes, “I’m a fag hag, not a fag nag.”

Brian barked out a laugh. “A nagging fag hag,” he claimed fondly as he leaned over the counter to place a kiss on her cheek. As Debs stared at him in astonishment over the rare display of affection, Brian stood up and exited the diner before the meddlesome woman could badger him further.

His mobile rang as he slid into his jeep, and when he didn’t recognise the caller ID, he tersely answered, “Kinney.”

“Mr Kinney, this is Detective Horvath with the Pittsburgh PD,” a raspy voice issued from the phone’s speaker.

The brunet actually caught himself superstitiously crossing his fingers as hope surged that he’d soon be able to move out of Muncherville. Surely the portly detective contacting him had to portend good tidings. “I was about to give you a call, detective,” Brian responded, “I’ve been wondering if I’d get my loft back sometime this century.”

The bobby chuckled, apparently not offended by Brian’s belligerent attitude. The brunet supposed the cops must take flak from the public all the time and were desensitised to it. “Investigations _do_ proceed slowly at times, Mr. Kinney, but not that slowly,” Horvath countered.

Brian bit his tongue rather than snarking that he wouldn’t bet on it, instead inquiring, “Does that mean I’ll have my flat back soon?”

“The crime scene techs will finish up today,” the constable noted, “so we should be able to release the loft to you tomorrow.”

Brian sagged back into the driver’s seat. How could the techtards still be working on his apartment seven days later? Were they really that bloody incompetent? “What’s taking so long?” he asked politely, not wanting to get the detective’s back up and have him retract his statement about releasing the loft the next day.

“There are other cases, such as violent crimes, that have priority,” the copper elaborated patiently, “so no one was available to dust your flat for fingerprints or other evidence until this afternoon.”

Brian cringed a little at the bobby’s explanation, feeling like a right prat for not figuring that out himself. “Ehm,” he stammered, “did you call to arrange a time to turn the loft back over to me?”

“That was one of the reasons for my call,” the policeman confirmed. “First, though, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“More questions?” he groaned. “Does that mean I have to come in to the station?”

“No need. As long as you have a moment now, we can sort it over the phone,” the detective assured him.

The brunet felt a stab of irrational fear; he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the police weren’t exactly known for being impartial toward the gay community. The detective wanting to ask a couple of questions over the phone couldn’t indicate anything bad though, could it? Shifting uneasily and clearing his throat, he grated, “Shoot,” and then winced, immediately regretting his word choice.

“Why did you tell me you lived alone when Mr. Taylor says he had been residing with you?” the detective queried.

Brian bit his lip. He could get out of this one, he thought. “He wasn’t living with me any longer when you arrived on the scene, detective,” he explained.

A surprised note in his voice, the bobby probed, “That doesn’t jibe with what Mr. Taylor told me. According to him, he had been living at 6 Fuller for a month.”

“I tossed him out, okay?” Brian grouched. “I could hardly let such an irresponsible person live in my loft any longer. It would just get burgled again.” Fuck. Of course, it made sense that if the copper were going to at least halfheartedly investigate, he would speak to Justin. What else might that blond muppet have divulged to the detective? It wasn’t that Brian had anything to hide precisely, but it gave him the jitters to have the police prying into his life.

A few seconds ticked by during which the detective didn’t say anything, making Brian wish he hadn’t been quite so blunt. The brunet didn’t regret his actions toward the teen, but he probably shouldn’t have indicated just how callous he had been. The copper might think the burglars had some sort of vendetta against Brian, that he’d been as cruel toward someone else as he had been toward Justin. Wait, could that actually have been the motivation behind the robbery? A trick who’d been pissed off because Brian had unceremoniously binned him once they’d fucked? He felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought that a former trick might have meticulously planned the burglary. And if that were indeed the case, would he be satisfied with nicking almost all of Brian’s possessions, or did he have further revenge in mind?

“You have the right to determine who lives with you, Mr. Kinney,” the flatfoot stated, with what Brian could swear was a censuring note. “However, you should have informed me that Mr. Taylor was your flatmate until the burglary occurred. It makes it difficult for the police to properly investigate a crime when information is withheld.”

By the time the detective ceased speaking, the brunet no longer doubted that the bloke disapproved of his behavior, at least as far as not being more forthcoming in regard to the burglary. He felt like a berated schoolboy. Shit. He really hoped the detective wouldn’t ask him again about whether any strangers had been in the loft. He didn’t think he’d get away with describing himself as being ‘closely acquainted’ with all visitors a second time.

“The kid was just living with me until he could find other accommodations,” Brian defensively protested. The brunet’s conscience twinged at that prevarication; he knew Justin wouldn’t have left, had Brian not thrown him out. It hadn’t taken the teen long to move from the couch to the bed every night when he’d first moved in, until Brian had grumblingly conceded that the teen might as well stop sleeping on the sofa. It had been on the third night of them living together that the stud had finally had the sense to admit there were benefits to having a hot, willing body in his bed although, of course, he’d acted like he was making a big concession in allowing the teen to join him. Not that the brat hadn’t seen through his pretence, giggling as he’d curled up in Brian’s arms after they’d fucked for the fifth time that night...

Brian’s burgeoning hard-on wilted when Horvath’s voice interrupted his wandering thoughts. The brunet couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that he was speaking with the detective. “One more question for now, Mr. Kinney,” the copper said before pausing momentarily.

“Yeah?” he grunted, wondering how many more interrogations he’d have to endure before the policeman completed his investigation.

“Did you keep any illegal drugs in your medicine cabinet?” the detective completed his query.

“Only the kid’s allergy meds were in there,” Brian responded honestly, thankful that the cop had only asked about the medicine cabinet and not the loft in general.

“Well, allergy medications are hardly a reason for B and E,” the detective noted. “Given that almost everything was quickly and systematically removed from your loft during a relatively short period of time, the burglary was likely planned in advance.”

“Could it be gang related?” Brian asked. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought about some of the sketchy characters he’d brought back to the loft over the years.

“We can’t exclude any possibility at the moment, Mr Kinney,” the detective replied, seeming surprised that Brian had raised the topic. “Do you have any reason to think it is?”

Brian cleared his throat quietly. “No, of course not,” he denied, “but I do watch the news and it’s full of organised crime.”

The cop offered, “I can arrange for you to look at some identikits of known burglars that operate in your area when you have some free time. Perhaps you’ll recognize someone.”

“All right, just give me a ring, and I’ll make myself available,” the brunet replied. “I’d like to have those bastards tracked down.” Fuck, Brian thought, even if it was a gang - a possibility the copper hadn’t denied - that still didn’t exclude a disgruntled trick or more being involved in the robbery. He really hoped he hadn’t managed to tangle himself up with some gang by knocking back a desperate fag and that someone had just been casing his building. His brow furrowed as he wondered how they could have known the blond brat hadn’t set the alarm. Something didn’t add up, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what the problem might be. At the moment he was still more concerned that the copper doubted his veracity in regard to strangers visiting the loft. Why else would the bloke think he might be able to identify the burglar?

“What time tomorrow could you meet me and my partner at your flat?” the detective inquired. “Will you be free in the morning?”

“I’d like to get back into my loft as soon as possible,” Brian immediately replied. He normally hated to get up early on a Sunday, but he was desperate to escape Muncherland and have his own space again, so the earlier, the better. “Would eight o’clock work for you?”

After agreeing to meet at eight o’clock, they hung up and the brunet drove off in search of a respectable caff that wasn’t too crowded. Sadly, there were no fuckable tricks at the ‘q cafe’, just an astonishing number of trolls. That left the brunet frustrated, so he decided to check out the Irish pub next door in hopes of having better luck.

 

While Brian was fruitlessly searching for an adequate trick at the Irish pub, Justin was industriously devising a short poem, a satire on the nature of beauty for his Latin class. The teen had leafed through Catullus’ poems in preparation, searching for the best way to say ‘beautiful’ in Latin, ultimately deciding that the word ‘formosa’ was the most fitting equivalent.

Justin couldn’t refrain from giggling as he composed the poem. He pictured Brian’s face - first the disgust at the overblown language, claiming the brunet’s beauty outshone that of the moon, the stars, and the night sky. Then would come the outrage when he realized the teen was actually just poking fun at him… Justin, of course, wouldn’t be able to resist quipping, “Remember, Bri, beauty is only skin deep.”

As he crafted the poem, the teen wistfully hoped that he and Brian would be able to share a laugh about it someday. When Brian had been quizzing him about Smythe earlier today, it _had_ seemed like he cared about Justin; the blond was quite certain it hadn’t been wishful thinking this time.

The teen lauded himself for his neat penmanship as he added the final ironic words. Unable to resist the urgent itching in the tips of his fingers, he opened his sketchbook to a blank page - silently thanking the detective for returning it the previous day. It was much better than doodling on napkins and his miniscule order pad from the diner. As his pen raced across the paper, Brian’s nude form quickly took shape, arms stretched out to the side - exactly how the brunet had displayed himself to Justin that first night. In the space he’d left beneath the drawing, the blond copied in his poem in Latin in clean cursive.

Justin placed his midterm assignment inside his notebook and then stashed it in his knapsack to turn in on Monday. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his sketchbook though. If the surface of the desk were larger, he’d leave it there, but he needed that space to open his textbooks and notebooks when he studied. The teen finally decided that one of the desk drawers would be the best place to deposit the sketchpad; it would be readily accessible whenever he wanted it. He had to shift some of Michael’s comic books to one of the dresser drawers, but doubted the man would notice. For all the griping the prat continued to do about Justin residing in his room, the teen had never actually seen Michael in the bedroom the older man insisted was _his_.

To remove the kinks from sitting at the desk for so long, Justin performed some stretches, as he had been wont to do before soccer practice. He really missed both the physical activity afforded by the sport and the mental stimulation; there was nothing quite like the thrill of out-strategizing another team. Unfortunately, other than Brian, he didn’t think any of the gang were into team sports, so a pickup game wouldn’t likely be in the offing anytime soon.

Ten minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed, Justin trotted down the stairs to find out whether Debbie and Vic were ready to tackle the attic.

 

At nine-thirty, Brian sauntered into Babylon like he owned the place. He normally wouldn’t have hit the club so early, but he was desperate for some action. Rather than go near the lesbians’ house since they were bound to badger him about promoting for the GLC, he’d whiled away the afternoon and evening, first at that troll-populated cafe and then the Irish pub conveniently located right next to the coffee shop. In the pub, he’d allowed a passable-looking redhead to blow him in the men’s room, but the guy’s technique had been nothing to call home about. The man had barely managed to take half his length down his throat and had gripped the base of Brian’s cock too tightly, making the brunet yelp in pain. Brian had shoved the man aside, buttoned up, and then stomped out to the pub’s main room but hadn’t found anyone else worthy of servicing him.

Fortunately, with free entry for service members yesterday and today, the club was already well populated with hunky men. Brian espied a tall, trim brunet, moving in the direction of the bar and nodded toward the backroom when the bloke looked at him with obvious interest. He thought that the uniform might be that of a looey in the air force, although he didn’t actually give a damn what branch of the military the man belonged to - he just wanted to wet his dick. In response to Brian’s nod, his first trick of the night immediately changed course, heading toward the back of the club.

Brian strolled out of the recesses of the club and up to the bar a quarter of an hour later. The trick had given him a fairly decent blow job, so Brian had subsequently fucked him as a reward. There’d been no reason to linger, though, since the guy’s ass hadn’t been all that tight. Brian was beginning to wonder if there was some kind of loose-arse epidemic going around; either that, or he wasn’t having much luck choosing tricks.

“Kinney,” the bartender greeted him, pouring a double shot of Beam and pushing it across the bar to the brunet without him having to order.

“Freddie,” Brian acknowledged. He’d learned the barkeeps’ names early on; if their palms were greased, they kept an eye on your drinks to make sure sure no one laced them with illegal substances. The brunet was aware that Freddie would prefer to have him grease something else, but the bartender had already gotten his one fuck. When the bloke hadn’t argued with Brian about his ‘no repeats policy’, he had been pleasantly surprised at the time. Now though, he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The bartender had been a good enough fuck that Brian had taken him back to the loft. Could Freddie have been involved in the burglary?

Fuck, he was going to drive himself crazy if he viewed every former trick with mistrust, especially since that encompassed almost the entire fuckable gay population in the Pitts. Brian resolved to think no further about it, instead turning to scan the heaving throng for his next trick.

Toward the middle of the dance floor, two uniformed, tallish men who lacked a couple of Brian’s inches were grinding away. Two tricks would definitely be better than one, the stud determined as he prowled through the dancing crowd toward the two blokes. He eased up behind the stockier one - a sailor? - and attempted to match the man’s rhythmical undulations to the music. Even with his front plastered against the man’s back, though, he was unsuccessful, treading on the man’s heel and earning an aggravated glance.

Shit, dancing was such an unreliable method for collecting tricks. If it weren’t for his stunning looks, magnificent physique, and sexual prowess, it mightn’t work at all, Brian reflected. To ensure he didn’t lose these two potential tricks, he caressed his way down the man’s torso until he reached the bulge at his crotch. Not too bad, the brunet determined; he’d estimate seven inches. The other cock was even more promising; it felt like it was just shy of eight inches. Completely ignoring the music - why pretend he could dance? - Brian frotted against the sailor from behind and took both men’s dicks in hand, stimulating them until they were moaning for release. He then tugged the sailor toward the backroom, the other man predictably following along like an obedient puppy.

Once he was comfortably stationed against the wall, Brian opened his fly, releasing his cock, and told the salivating tricks, “Have at it, boys.”

As they knelt down, the sailor looked at the other uniformed man and proposed, “What do you say, soldier - shall we have an Army-Navy Game of our own? Whoever gets the stud to come the quickest will be the first one to get ploughed. That way, if he can’t get it up for both of us, at least the winner will benefit.”

Army eyed Navy dubiously. “How do we decide who goes first?” he asked the swabbie. “Won’t that person have an unfair advantage? How long does each of us suck before trading off? Who’s going to keep time?”

Brian stared down at the two men incredulously. Did they expect him to wait while they hashed out the rules of their ‘game’? And how dare they insinuate he couldn’t get it up for the both of them? He straightened up with every intention of pushing the two nitwits aside when the sailor stopped him by placing a hand on his thigh.

“We’ll make it worth your while, stud,” he assured Brian. “Soldier-boy and I are champion cocksuckers.” With that, he leaned forward and licked a stripe up the right side of Brian’s dick, the ranker mirroring him on the other side.

Brian let out a pleased moan, his eyes closing and his head falling back to rest against the wall. Army and Navy weren’t too bad at this, he mused as their tongues laved his prick. There must have been a lot of visits exchanged between West Point and the Naval Academy to achieve this level of skill; they were both genuinely talented.

At that moment, another voice intruded, “I can keep time on my cellphone.”

The stud’s eyes slitted open and he turned his head to see Todd.

“Hey up, Todd. How are you doing?” Brian greeted him, the syllables lazily rolling off his tongue.

“Fine,” came the expected answer, the curly-haired blond looking eagerly at Brian. “So?” he prompted, waving his mobile in Brian’s face. The brunet couldn’t find it in himself to refuse. This would give him the opportunity to demonstrate his amazing recuperative powers, and the legend of Brian fucking Kinney would spread even further.

“All right,” he growled at the Army-Navy duo, “you can have your competition. But get a move on, or I’m going to find someone else to fuck.”

Brian tuned out the murmuring between Todd and the two tricks, dimly registering the sound of a coin hitting the cement as they flipped to see who got to be first up. Indifferent to who had won the toss, Brian moaned again when welcome heat engulfed his cock.

Half an hour later, Brian strutted back onto the dance floor, satisfied with his own performance and hunting for yet another trick. He’d left the fags in the backroom exchanging money as they settled the bets they’d placed on Army-Navy as well as the wagers on how long it would take him to fuck both of the blokes.

He sidled up to another tall trick and swayed with the man for a few bars of the song that was playing. Brian didn’t dare dance much longer than that, or his complete lack of rhythm would quickly become evident. Why was it somehow easier to follow the music when he danced with Justin? he puzzled. Technically speaking, he should find himself more out of sync with the blond than with a man of comparative height. Brian had to bend his knees if he wanted to align their groins and frot directly against the teen, which was the position in which he found it easiest to follow the beat - swaying from side to side and shuffling around the floor as Justin led the way.

That method certainly wasn’t going to work with this hunk, who kept moving his pelvis away and then back, causing Brian to falter and stumble. Ready to get away from the dance floor and his embarrassingly pathetic performance, Brian whispered suggestively in the trick’s ear, “Ready for the fuck of a lifetime?”

When the man tipped his head in eager acquiescence, Brian made another trip to the backroom. Sadly, for a marine that had to serve under ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’, he had a pretty loose ass, and the brunet regretted that he hadn’t asked for a blow job instead. These men in uniform must really be rogering one another all night long to become so loosey-goosey, he reflected. Perhaps he should have Emmett, the nelliest of bottoms, compose a manual on how to strengthen one’s anal muscles. It would surely be a bestseller.

Brian ambled back to the bar, where he accepted another double shot of bourbon from Freddie and, leaning back on his elbows, surveyed the club for prospective tricks. All the while he was also keeping an eye out for the elusive Smythe. He glanced up toward the catwalk, but the manager’s office was dark. Since he’d never met the man and wasn’t sure what the guy looked like, Brian was at a bit of a loss as to how to locate him. “Freddie, is the owner here tonight?” he finally inquired when the bartender pointed toward his glass, silently asking whether Brian wanted a refill.

“Nah, he had something to take care of,” the bartender responded, shaking his head. “MacAllister’s around somewhere, though, if want to talk to him.”

Brian wasn’t interested in the paunchy assistant manager, who hadn’t even rated a fuck and wasn’t the hiring authority for the club anyway. He shrugged philosophically; he’d scope out Smythe on his next visit to the club. There should be plenty of time before the teen would start working.

“Hey, stud, you wanna go with us?” Army queried as he staggered over arm in arm with Navy. “A friend of the Swabbie’s is hosting a party over at the Renaissance Hotel.”

Brian was about to decline - there was a plentitude of tricks here at the club - when a piercing voice shrieked, “Brian! There you are. I just checked the backroom because I was sure you’d be showing everyone else how to fuck.”

The brunet grimaced as his best friend excitedly babbled on, “The guys in there were raving about how you banged these two dudes in uniform - first one, then the next, and finally a chain fuck with both of them. You should have waited for me, Brian; I could have made a bundle wagering on how quickly you’d get through one suck and three fucks.”

“Sorry to have disappointed you, Mikey, but I gotta go,” the brunet hastily interjected, having no desire to listen to the man recount his backroom adventures. That party at the Renaissance sounded better by the moment, and he could easily find a trick in whose hotel room he could crash for the night. Brian grabbed the soldier’s arm, perforce towing both him and the sailor toward the entrance.

A plaintive “Brian, wait!” followed after him as he exited the club with his companions. He didn’t wait.

 

As Justin walked into the living room that evening, Vic held up two dust masks. “You ready to brave the bat shit, mouse turds, and Irish lace?” he inquired.

The teenager paled at the thought of having to face live bats but hoped it wasn’t noticeable. He could hardly say he was experiencing a mild case of chiroptophobia, though, for fear of sounding like a total girl. He’d never live _that_ down, not when neither Vic nor Debbie seemed in the least perturbed. A rather sickly smile on his face, he instead uttered in confusion, “Irish lace? Why would that be a problem?”

“Oh, honey,” Deb gasped once she had stopped chortling, “you really haven’t done much housecleaning, have you?”

Justin couldn’t help feeling offended. He’d always done his share of the vacuuming and dusting at home to help out his mom. On more than one occasion, he had overheard his dad tell Jennifer that they didn’t need a maid, since she was a stay-at-home mom and otherwise wouldn’t have enough to do. One time, when he’d been about eight years old - shortly before Molly was born - he’d gotten up from the chair in the living room where he’d been hidden from sight and had declared, “I’ll help you clean, mom, I don’t mind.”

His mom had shot him a grateful smile, but then Craig had berated both of them, “Cleaning is for girls, Justin; I’m sure you can find something better to do. You don’t want to turn into a sissy, son.”

Justin hadn’t understood what cleaning had to do with being a sissy, but he’d bravely stared down his father, claiming, “Mom can’t do all that, Dad, not when she’s carrying around my little brother or sister.” The lad had to smile at the memory of his younger self; he remembered not being quite sure how his sibling was going to magically materialize out of his mom’s tummy.

Craig had backed down, however, muttering, “Only until the baby is born.”

Jennifer had still been leery about letting Justin help her, making sure Craig had left for the office before they began cleaning.

At Debbie’s explanation, “Irish lace is cobwebs, Kiddo,” the teen joined in the laughter, thinking that later on he’d have to sketch a big, fat spider tatting away and pin it up on the fridge. The boisterous redhead would be sure to get a chuckle out of that.

“Here you go, Kiddo,” Vic offered, handing Justin one of the dust masks.

“Wait,” Debs ordered, telling the two men to lower the masks to their necks before doing the same with her own. After retrieving a Polaroid camera from the media cabinet, she set it up so that all three of them would fit into the frame, and then handed Vic a feather duster, Justin a broom, and nabbed a bottle of Pledge for herself. As they all faced the camera, baring their teeth ferociously and holding up the cleaning implements as if they were heading off to battle, Debbie pressed the self-timer.

“Good one, Sis,” Vic critiqued after the photo printed out. “We’re modern-day musketeers, chasing down dust bunnies and unearthing treasures.”

Deb chuckled and led the way toward the stairs, holding the Pledge cleanser out in front of herself and proclaiming, “Watch out! No strand of spiderweb, not a single mouse dropping, or one speck of dirt shall remain by the time we’re done.”

Ninety minutes later, all of them were covered in cobwebs - Debbie pretending to be draped in a shawl of finest lace - smudges of dirt dotting their faces. As Justin cranked an old gramophone, Vic took his sister in his arms and whirled her around the tiny space they’d cleared so far.

When they’d pulled the Victrola out of a wooden chest that was on the verge of disintegrating, Vic had stared at it in amazement, reminiscing, “I can remember Nonno and Nonna dancing around the living room while I kept turning the handle.”

“Fuck, yes!” Deb had enthusiastically agreed. “ _Oh My Darling, Clementine_ was an especial favorite of Nonno.”

“Probably because ‘Clementina’ was Nonna’s first name,” Vic had reflected. “I wonder if that folk ballad is in here somewhere; I’d love to wind up this old gramophone.

The three of them had rooted around in the chest, eventually locating a stack of records, including one with the American ballad.

Now, Vic brought Deb to a stop next to where Justin was sitting on the floor beside the Victrola. “Young man, I believe it is your turn,” he greeted Justin, bowing and holding out a hand.

As the teen stood up, the redhead took Justin’s place on the floor, quickly sorting through the records and putting a different one on the player, an amused gleam in her eyes. She then began to crank the machine, the strains of _’O sole mio_ , sung by Enrico Caruso, pouring forth.

Vic began crooning along with Enrico in quite a passable tenor as he twirled the teen around the impromptu dance floor. When the song came to an end, the older man warbled, “You are my Sunshine,” dipping Justin dramatically before letting him go.

“It’s your signature song, Sunshine,” Debbie announced with a wink, removing the record and handing it to Justin.

A delighted grin on his face, Justin directed his response toward the older man, “As long as I can dance with such a charming suitor, I’m glad to claim the song.”

Vic winked lustily and announced, “I’m at your service anytime, young sir,” which earned him a head slap from his sister.

The cleaning crew then went back to work, sorting more stuff into piles to be trashed, saved for a garage sale, or replaced in the attic for later use.

At one point, Deb pulled on a moth-eaten, faded blue sweater and piously claimed, “I’m holier than thou,” making Vic and Justin groan at the terrible joke.

A few minutes later, Vic held up a condom, the year 1959 still discernible on the original wrapper, and joshed, “Do you think it’s still good?” Both Debbie and Justin laughed, shaking their heads at the man’s antics.

It was already dark outside when Justin found his favourite treasure yet. “Oh, wow!” he burst out as he lifted an old blanket, exposing a decorative metal birdcage. “This is so cool.”

“Hoy,” the redhead exclaimed, looking over Justin’s shoulder. “That belonged to my sassy little blue budgie, Harley.”

“That parakeet had a heckuva foul mouth,” Vic commented fondly.

“He learned from the best,” Debbie asserted proudly.

“Mom was always threatening to wash my mouth out with soap, even though it was you that bird imitated,” Vic chuckled, apparently not very put out to have taken the blame for his sister.

Debbie sighed, “Michael wasn’t even two when Harley died; I’m sure he doesn’t remember the splendid little fellow.”

“Could I use the cage?” Justin politely requested. “Maybe I can get a budgie of my own. If they’re not too expensive, that is,” he added with a worried frown.

“Sure, you can have the cage, Honey. That’s better than it moldering away up here in the attic,” the redhead stated. A yearning note in her voice, she added, “I’d love to have one of those little buggers around again.”

“You purchased that bird with money you earned babysitting, didn’t you, Sis?" Vic queried. “It can’t have been very expensive since you were perpetually short of cash.”

“I was all of fifteen at the time,” Deb recollected, “so I’d say not more than eight dollars. Maybe fifteen dollars at today’s prices.”

“I could handle that,” Justin decided, “especially since I’ll soon be working two jobs.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to work as a go-go boy, Kiddo?” Vic questioned worriedly. “I know you’re excited by the opportunity; heck, you couldn’t stop jabbering about it when we started this cleaning adventure. I agree it’s flattering that Smythe thinks so highly of your dancing skills, but those boys work damned hard for their tips. Is it really worth exhausting yourself for the extra cash - just to reimburse Brian a bit sooner?”

Justin’s face settled into a mutinous expression, his jaw jutting out. Why did almost everyone - with the exception of Em - have such reservations about him dancing on the bar at Babylon? The teen knew Vic meant well, but he was getting tired of all the cautionary advice.

“I’d be glad to pay for the budgie,” Debbie jumped in, “the little parrot and Vic could keep each other company when you’re not here. Those bright, loving little critters crave companionship and tend to get right stroppy if they don’t get the attention they’re sure is their due.”

“No, please,” Justin hastily inserted, “I want to get a blue budgie with my own money.” He then confessed, “I’ve never had a pet of any kind, but I’ve always wanted one. A small bird would be just the ticket for now.”

Turning to Vic, he somewhat shyly asked, “Would you be willing to look after the little guy during the day? I wouldn’t want him to get loney.”

“I’d enjoy it,” Vic assured the teen. “Sis is right that I could use a companion.”

“Would you go with me to find a budgie that resembles yours as closely as possible?” Justin bashfully asked his surrogate mother. “I already know I want to name him Harley.”

“Oh, that’s a charming notion, Sunshine,” Debbie replied, sniffling and wiping away a tear.

“The young’un may be Harley’s great-great-grandson,” Vic teased, “so you’ll just be bringing home a member of the family.”

“How about we figure out when we can go shopping for the little dear after we finish this round of cleaning?” Deb proposed.

Justin and Vic murmured their assent, the trash and sale piles rapidly expanding as they made further inroads into the attic, with fewer items set aside for future storage.

After they judged they were halfway through cleaning the attic, the weary crew chowed down on some tuna and onion pizza and quaffed a couple beers.

“So yummy, Vic,” the teen mumbled, barely able to refrain from eating long enough to speak. “Ta for making this.”

“You’re welcome, Kiddo,” the older man had replied, clearly made up by Justin’s compliment.

“It is really good,” Debbie teased, “glad to see you haven’t lost your touch, Bro. You want to take over in the kitchen?”

A laughing Vic demurred, “I’d rather eat your cooking any day, Sis.”

While they ate, Deb looked at the calendar, commenting that the soonest she could go with Justin to select Harley Junior would be the Saturday before Thanksgiving. “That’s perfect, Deb,” the teenager enthused, “I’ll be off school the following week. We can work a shift at the diner and then go get Harley. Oh, if that works for you, that is,” Justin hurriedly tacked on, a bit chagrined to have made plans for both of them.

“That’ll be just fine, Sunshine,” Debbie responded, leaning over to affectionately pat Justin’s cheek.

As he fell asleep later that night, Justin had a smile on his lips as he considered the first words he wanted to teach Harley.

 

Brian looked around, noting all the half-dressed hunks that were dancing around him, fancy cocktails in hand and pupils dilated. The rooftop, where the party Army-Navy had dragged him to was taking place, was spacious and thankfully surrounded by a high fence that would be very difficult to fall over - even if you tried really hard.

“So, is this smashing or what?” his sailor companion turned to him, “I told you Enrique was a top bloke, didn’t I?”

Brian shrugged. He had actually never heard either man mention anyone named Enrique, but then again he had tuned out most of the tricks’ yabber as they walked the three blocks from Babylon to the Renaissance Hotel, so anything was possible. The party did look great, though, he had to admit - the music was just loud enough to vibrate through him but not so loud that it shook his insides; the lights were dimmed; the bar seemed well-stocked; and, most importantly, the guys were fit. The only problem Brian was currently having was…

“It’s fucking freezing,” he grunted, his eyes narrowing at the half-naked men shaking their asses around him in what had to be ten degrees at the most. They were either all members of some Polar Bear Plunge club, or they were all so tweaked they no longer cared their nipples were going to fall off. Not being either of the two, the brunet rubbed at his own chest in an attempt to warm his own poor hardened nubs, which actually had the protection of a shirt. He briefly contemplated putting on his coat but immediately discarded the thought - he wasn’t going to pick up any tricks if he hid his body beneath the thick material of his Vince Camuto peacoat. And since he doubted he could train himself not to mind the cold in the next five minutes, he was left with only one option to warm himself up - booze and some ekies.

“Do you know any of these people?” he turned to Navy inquiringly before looking around for anyone he might score some E off of.

The already-inebriated sailor waved his arm to encompass the whole room. “These are all my friends,” he exclaimed.

Brian nodded. “Yeah, but do you know any of them?”

“Huh, not really,” shrugged his companion. “Why?”

Brian was just about to explain his predicament, that he wanted to buy some E but needed someone he could trust not to kill him with their goods, when he noticed a transaction going on in one of the corners of the rooftop. A wiry, racially ambiguous teenager was buying some colourful round pills in a clear plastic bag off of a surprisingly respectable-looking dealer. Brian watched as money change hands, before the teenager fished one of the pills out of the bag and immediately swallowed it. The brunet decided to give it half an hour, and if by that time the teenager was still breathing, he’d go and buy some happy pills himself. In the meantime, he would warm up in a different way; physical activity was the best way to get your blood flowing after all.

“See you, then,” he mumbled towards the uniformed duo, most likely too quietly for them to even hear him, before strolling confidently forward and letting the horny crowd swallow him. He ground up against a few arses on his way to the middle of the dance floor, where he chose to sway his hips tantalisingly from side to side as he lured in unsuspecting prey. The tricks flocked around him like vultures, gyrating their own hips and shaking their crotches in his direction in an effort to catch his attention. Brian was a little surprised, if pleased, by the unusual amount of flattery he was receiving, but then he realised with horror that these people had never met him before and he was their definition of ‘fresh meat’. Great.

Then again, if everyone wanted a piece of him, all the better. And who knew, some of the hunks might even be familiar with internal muscle- tightening exercises. Carefully choosing his first victim, Brian zeroed in on a tanned, Italian-looking dude. Sidling up to the man, the brunet ran his hand down the stallion’s flat chest, before cupping his manhood and squeezing it gently. “Bathroom,” he ordered, before turning around and making his way to where he had noticed the loo signs, not checking if the guy was following - simply knowing he was.

After getting blown in one of the toilet stalls, Brian buttoned up and quickly went to exit the washroom, rather regretting his first choice. The guy hadn’t possessed skills to match those of Army-Navy and hadn’t even merited a fuck. When he pulled open the door to the bathroom, a handsome redhead tumbled inward, giggling and righting himself by pressing a hand against Brian’s chest.

“Are they charging toll now to use the bathroom?” he slurred, while glancing at Brian hungrily.

The brunet joked, “Yeah, you can’t take a piss unless you agree to suck me off.”

“Deal,” the ginger readily agreed, keeping an eye on Brian while using the urinal, apparently afraid he would vanish.

Brian was a bit wary about letting another redhead blow him after the dismal performance by the ginger at the Irish pub that afternoon, but he magnanimously decided to give this one a chance. He was much better looking than the carrot-top from earlier, and it would hardly make sense to exclude all redheads based on one cretin’s shoddy effort, the brunet reasoned. As it turned out, for all the carrot-top was three sheets to the wind, the suck was much more satisfactory. In acknowledgement of a job reasonably well done, Brian followed up with a quick shag, the man gasping for breath, his pants puddled around his ankles as Brian once more left the stall.

Back out in the cool air, Brian wandered over to the open bar and ordered a shot of bourbon, irritated that he had to settle for a brand other than Jim Beam. What kind of moron threw a bash at a swanky hotel like the Renaissance but didn’t serve quality sour mash? he wondered. The inferior brand seared his throat as he tossed it back, and he resolved to just order a pint the next time he was gasping. They couldn’t bollocks that up, right?

As Brian raised his hand to flag down the bartender, he noticed the wiry teen from before bopping up and down on the dance floor. It had been more than thirty minutes and the lad seemed to be fine, so Brian opted to search out the dealer and get another drink later on.

He located the guy in the same corner as earlier, still briskly peddling his wares. After forking over payment for two tablets of E, Brian immediately downed one of the pills, shoving the other into his pocket. The transaction was so straightforward and drama-free that Brian was tempted to suggest to the man that he do business at Babylon. As he was about to murmur something to that effect in the man’s in ear, he changed his mind, merely nodding in thanks and walking away. It wasn’t worth the hassle of contending with an irate Anita, should she ever discover who had directed the bloke to the club.

One more E, three pints, and two additional blowjobs later, Brian was exhausted and decided to call it a night. As he headed toward the reception desk to book a room in the hotel, he considered seducing another trick and taking him to the room. When he stumbled on his way to the lifts, though, he determined he was way too tweaked to share a room with a stranger. Plus, he was about to pass out, and there was no point in inviting a trick that he wouldn’t have the energy to fuck.

Brian had almost reached the lift when he was stopped by Army-Navy, who were wavering on their feet, sloppy grins on their faces. Brian suspected they were extremely drunk, though not high. Given the prevalence of random urine and blood tests in the armed forces, he doubted they would chance taking drugs.

“Hey, stud,” Army garbled, “we didn’t mean to abandon you before. Whaddaya say - you want to share our bed? One more shag before we all crash?”

Navy nodded vigorously in concurrence with that notion, causing himself to wobble even more alarmingly.

“Careful there, mate,” Army reached out in an attempt to steady his friend but lurched into him instead, almost toppling both of them to the ground.

Brian had to chuckle at the drunken duo. Truth be told, he wasn’t in much better condition, but he had significantly more practice in maintaining his balance while drunk and high. Except when he was on the dance floor, but that was an issue even when he was stone-cold sober.

“No can do,” he responded to the soldier’s request, “only one fuck per trick, boys.”

The swabbie spluttered, “But you fucked Army twice! Surely I deserve a second fuck.”

“It was all one long fuck,” Brian dismissed the notion that he’d broken his own one-fuck policy, although he well knew he was splitting hairs.

At their identical looks of bewilderment, he waved in farewell and staggered toward the elevator, not wanting his _logic_ to be questioned further.

“You lucky sod,” he overheard the sailor complain, “I still think sucking on his balls before swallowing his cock on your second try was cheating.”

The soldier’s smug retort, “It wasn’t against the rules-” was cut off as the doors to the lift closed behind Brian.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Synergy Sister and I would like to express our never-ending gratitude to Alois, whose help has been invaluable during the shaping of this chapter. Trust us, it would make a lot less sense without her :D

Brian felt like he had spent the night in a boxing ring as he slowly climbed the stairs up to his loft. His head was throbbing, his stomach was protesting even the slightest movement, and his legs had the tendency to suddenly give out on him whenever he used them for longer than five minutes at a stretch. He imagined he could still feel the after-effects of the ecstasy and hoped his eyes didn’t carry evidence of drug use. It was bad enough he smelled like a combination of sweat, booze, and sex.

Finally reaching the top landing, Brian was met with two people leaning against the wall by the door to his loft. Detective Horvath had been joined by a tiny Asian woman, who had the most serious face Brian had ever seen - and that included his high school maths teacher.

“Mr Kinney,” the bulky copper greeted him, before motioning to his companion, “this is my partner, Detective Wen.”

Brian grunted. He didn’t particularly care to make another acquaintance in the police force, especially not someone who appeared like they could completely eviscerate him with just one look.

The female detective just returned his grunt, though, not bothering to speak either. Instead, she turned to the loft door, unlocking it.

Horvath gave Brian a wry grin. “Welcome back home, then,” he told him. “We’ll just have one last quick look around and then we’ll leave you to it,” he assured him. And with that, the three of them entered the flat.

Brian looked around, feeling slightly disoriented. Of course he remembered that his loft had been cleared out and that there was essentially no furniture to speak of, but knowing about it and actually seeing it again were two different things. “Geesh,” he sighed, walking across the bare expanse of his living room.

Horvath nodded. “I know, all the empty space is a bit overwhelming, but I can assure you we’re doing everything we can. Aren’t we?” he turned to his colleague.

Chang - or whatever her name was - nodded slowly, a seemingly bored expression on her face. Brian just ignored both of them and made his way over to the kitchen - the only room which looked more or less intact, mainly because the kitchen island was bolted to the floor and the burglars couldn’t have made away with it. He started opening and closing the cupboards, though he knew he would find most of them empty. He was staring at a lonely packet of napkins that occupied an otherwise empty cupboard, when a thought occurred to him - the dishwasher was likely to be full of clean dishes, because Justin usually turned it on after they had their shower in the morning and unloaded it after he came from school in the afternoon. Brian would bet the short blond had planned to do it after he came back from his sister’s birthday do, but didn’t get to it for obvious reasons.

Opening the dishwasher now, the brunet cheered internally as he found it fully loaded with clean dishes. That was one thing he didn’t have to immediately replace, he thought.

“Everything all right?” inquired Horvath, walking up to Brian and peering over his shoulder curiously.

The brunet stud nodded, pulling out one of the drawers and motioning to the dishes. “I’m just made up these are still here,” he muttered.

The police officer grinned in understanding. “I suppose one has to eat off of someth-” he broke off, a furious blush spreading across his meaty cheeks. “Oh, you meant that.”

Brian frowned, inspecting the dishwasher in confusion. What the flaming heck had got the detective’s knickers in a twist? His eyes flitted over the inconspicuous bowls and glasses, before settling upon the smooth surface of his favourite glass dildo. Huh, he thought, no wonder the copper looked like he was about to have a stroke. Deciding to rub the detective’s face in it a little more, Brian pulled it out and waved it around nonchalantly. “This little thing?” he taunted.

Horvath’s cheeks were now almost purple, and Wen’s lip twitched in what could’ve been anything from amusement to discomfort - either way, it was the most emotion she had shown so far.

“Something bothering you, Detective Chen?” Brian snarked, wiggling the glass shaft in her direction in hopes of unsettling the Asian.

The woman didn’t even move a muscle at the wrong name or the childish gesture and just continued to stare at him unbothered. Brian’s drug-addled brain concluded she was made of stone, and it was therefore no use to try and rile her up. He put the dildo back down.

“Anyroad,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, “if you’ve seen everything you wanted to see, you think you could leave? It’s just that I have a lot to do here - like make a list of all the necessities I need to replace - and I’d appreciate if-”

“You talk too much,” the Chinese detective interrupted him in a low voice, before turning on her heel and just leaving the loft.

Brian stared after her for a second before turning to Horvath with raised eyebrows. The detective shrugged. “Yes, she’s always like that,” he said, before chuckling, “I’d better go after her or she’ll drive away without me.” And with that, the bulky man scarpered after his partner, leaving Brian alone in the uncomfortably empty loft.

The brunet looked around himself again, feeling dejected. The big space seemed even more empty now that the two coppers were gone, and Brian felt at a loss as to what to do. His steps echoed hauntingly on the wooden floors as he paced to and fro across his living room. Having lived with the lesbians for the past week, he hadn’t really managed to come to terms with the reality of what had happened but now, standing in the cleared out space, he realised how much he had actually lost. There was nothing of his identity left in the loft; it might just as well have been any other flat in the area and he wouldn’t have known any different.

Having decided to stop dawdling and actually do something, Brian set upon making a list of necessities to buy so he could spend the night at the loft. In order to do that, though, he had to find a paper and a pen first, which was an issue of its own. He looked towards his right, where he expected to find his work desk, only to encounter an empty corner. Great, he didn’t even have a sheet of paper or a pen to write down that he needed a sheet of paper and a pen. Flaming hell, he hadn’t even begun yet and he was already frustrated.

The brunet was just about to give up and simply sit down on the floor and sulk - in a very manly way, of course - when he remembered his briefcase he had left in the car. He knew he not only had his laptop in there but some notepads and pens as well in case his laptop ever ran out of battery while he was in a meeting with clients. Jogging back down the stairs and to his jeep, Brian pulled out his briefcase as well as his peacoat that he had accidentally left in the car in his rush to meet the policemen. Bringing both items upstairs, he hung the coat on a hook next to the door and then went to stand at the kitchen counter - the only writing space in the whole loft, unless he wanted to sit on the floor. Opening a bottle of green tea that the burglars had graciously left behind in the fridge - all of his booze having been nicked - Brian began the list. The first item he put down was bed linens, then came the towels, shower gel, toothbrush, and a toothpaste. Fuck, he even needed toilet paper, since only a few lonely sheets were dangling from the nearly empty roll in the dispenser and none remained in the cabinet under the sink - his maid probably not having gotten around to replacing it before the loft got burgled. He also made a note to order more of his Dior anti-aging facial cream. It wouldn’t do to get wrinkles. Glancing at his platform bed and narrowing his eyes at the naked mattress, he imagined the burglars stripping off the fitted sheet and shuddered. He wrote down another item on the list, a new mattress. Pillows were next, since he wanted something to rest his head on.

Determining that would be enough to survive the night in moderate comfort, Brian began a new list. He would need a new work desk, a chair, and probably a dining table too - since, contrary to popular belief, he did actually sometimes eat at home. And a coffee maker, he thought, since he was never able to properly wake up till he had his morning caffeine injection. A couch and a TV, as well as the bedside tables and a dresser, could wait till later.

He should also go to the bank and make a copy of all the documents he had stowed away in his security box - the copies he had kept at the loft were gone, and he considered it irresponsible to keep all of his important documents in just one place. This would also give him the opportunity to bring home his toy box, he noted absentmindedly.

And lastly, he had to go to the shops and buy coffee, a couple bottles of booze, and some basic groceries. Just chicken or tuna as meat would do and then some tomatoes, cucumber, bell peppers, carrots and - what did Justin put into that potato casserole? - aubergine, yes. He would have to remember to pick up some hard Italian cheese as well, otherwise Justin would refuse to even touch the-

Brian swore. Loudly. Justin wasn’t there to cook anything, let alone gripe about the lack of cheese. Brian huffed as he crossed off almost the whole grocery section of his list, leaving only coffee. It wasn’t like _he_ could cook.

He could probably call the blond and persuade him to rustle something up, though - the teenager was sure to still be pining after him, so he would do it without complaint, right? Maybe he could even be persuaded to a quick roll in the hay, Brian mused. They would never again have the sort of relationship they’d had - if what they had could even be called a relationship - but they could still have a good time every now and then, no need to attach any strings.

But he wouldn’t do anything right away, he decided, it was better to let the blond stew a little longer before making his move - the more desperate the lad was, the better Brian’s chances. Ignoring his growling stomach, Brian chose to skip lunch at the diner and sate his ‘other appetite’ instead. He wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good, clean dildo, after all.

Pulling out a small bottle of lube he kept in his briefcase, Brian headed towards the shower, not wanting to touch the contaminated bed. He undressed quickly and then turned on the tap, tilting the shower head away from himself, so he didn’t get drenched in cold water. Once it warmed up, the brunet stepped into the scalding stream of water, letting it beat down on his nape and back, relaxing him.

Brian began running his hands over his torso, missing his shower gel with a fleeting thought. Despite the lack of lather, his skin was smooth and slick with water, and the brunet enjoyed the sensation of his hands caressing the sensitive flesh of his abdomen. Sliding his hands lower, he tugged at his member lightly before moving further down and massaging his balls. His breath hitched and Brian widened his stance, so he could reach even further behind himself and tease at his entrance.

He ran the pads of his fingers around his rim, putting light pressure at the centre and gasped. His body was loose and limber as Brian lifted his left foot up on the shower ledge, effectively opening himself up a little more to his probing fingers. He pressed his forefinger inside slightly, taking a deep breath to relax his inner muscles - he hadn’t done this in over a week and, unlike the majority of Pittsburgh’s population, he was tight. Some of those tricks must have bigger traffic than the I279 in order for their arses to get so out of shape.

Bending his knees and arching his back, the brunet slid his finger deeper inside of himself, searching for that hidden spot. Justin could always find it unerringly, but when Brian fingered himself on his own, the angle was a little awkward and it always took him a bit until he found his prost-

He gasped and his knees weakened. There it was. He bumped against the bundle of nerves again and felt his member get painfully hard. He tugged at his erection a few times to relieve a bit of that mounting pressure, before returning his focus behind himself. Drizzling a little lube over his fore and middle fingers, he pressed both of them inside, twisting. He was hot all over, his arousal joining the scalding water in raising his temperature, and his muscles were trembling. Jesus, he had barely even started.

Now thrusting his fingers in and out, occasionally bumping against his prostate, Brian built up a good rhythm. His breathy moans resonated in the spacious cubicle of his shower, becoming embarrassingly loud. “Fuck,” he whined, slightly adjusting his stance. “Fu-uck.”

He wouldn’t even need the dildo, he thought; he was going to come just on his fingers. Brian was about to reach around and finish himself off with a few well-timed strokes, his moans now reaching new heights, when a disturbing picture of a tiny Chinese woman appeared in his mind. It was the scary Detective Wank, saying, “You talk too much,” as she judged him with a measured gaze. Brian’s arousal immediately wilted. Well, fuck.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of any memories of the female - he didn’t want to get an ulcer - settling his thoughts on a familiar blond instead. Deciding not to fight the fantasy for once - it didn’t mean he cared for anything else but the lad’s assets after all - Brian began teasing his hole again. He added more of his lube, scissoring his fingers inside of himself as he imagined Justin behind him. The blond would finger him till he was painfully hard again, before bending him over with an insistent hand in the middle of his back.

Brian’s arousal came crashing back and, soon enough, he was reaching for his favourite dildo, bending over as if Justin had really manhandled him. Slicking up the glass shaft, the brunet pressed it against his opening before pushing back. The teenager would surely make him work for it, asking Brian to push back and fuck himself instead of pounding into him right away.

Slowly swallowing the dildo up as he canted his hips, he let out a loud moan. The imaginary Justin behind him whispered dirtily, “That’s it, Bri. Let me hear you.” and Brian moaned again. Gah, he felt so full. He didn’t remember the dildo being this big.

Pressing back a little more, he felt the hard shaft inside of him slide completely home, brushing against his prostate on the way. His knees almost gave out underneath his trembling weight, but he managed to keep his balance by bracing himself against the wall. He was panting heavily from exertion, but the fictitious blond inside of him didn’t give him any time to recuperate, instead beginning to thrust in and out with long movements. Brian’s hand clenched around the base of the dildo, driving the toy faster and deeper inside of himself. “Fuck,” he breathed out again.

The brunet could feel sweat running down from his hairline, immediately getting washed away by the steaming spray of water, and he shuddered at the feeling. For some reason, he considered a few drops of clean sweat to be one of the sexiest things - much better than most of the other bodily fluids, with one obvious exception. His contemplation of perspiration got interrupted by the slick toy inside of him brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves again, causing Brian to gasp. Fuck he was close. His manhood was as hard as ever and swollen with blood, precome leaking freely.

He nudged his prostate again and again, bringing himself closer and closer, but the desired peak was still unreachable. That would be the day, thought Brian, that he would finally come untouched. Leaning his shoulder against the shower wall so he could free his supporting hand, Brian gave his erection a few strokes with a twist at the end, and his breath hitched for the last time before he erupted with a long moan. Both his hands continued twitching with inertia from his rapid movements, further stimulating him and thus prolonging his orgasm. His lungs began burning after a while, making Brian realise that he wasn’t breathing. He gasped in a shuddery breath, letting in the much needed oxygen. Fuck, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come this hard. There was a blissful smile on his face, and the brunet was sure nothing could ruin his good mood now - he had his loft back; he had just buggered himself to a pleasant fantasy; and there were endorphins running through his bloodstream.

Brian slowly eased the glass toy out of his sensitive channel, his poor prostate suffering one last nudge, before he cleaned himself off underneath the slowly cooling stream. His water boiler was apparently already losing its steam, which wasn’t very surprising with how long he had spent in the shower - it was a wonder the water wasn’t cold.

Turning off the shower, Brian padded out of the cubicle and reached for his towel, encountering an empty space on the warming rack beside the shower. Huh? Where had the flaming towel gone? Too late, he remembered he was currently in possession of exactly zero towels, because the burglars had made away with his fluffy and expensive Egyptian cotton terry ones. So much for his good mood, thought Brian as he was forced to awkwardly stand in the middle of the bathroom, waiting to air-dry, so he didn’t track water onto his precious hardwood floors.

When he was satisfied he was no longer dripping water, the brunet found out he had to dress himself in the kit he had worn the day before, because the rest of his clothes were still at Manor Lesbos. He decided that before he did any of his shopping, he needed to fetch his bits and bobs from the lesbians - hopefully, they wouldn’t be too infested by carpet muncher cooties.

Making his way out of the bathroom, again fully dressed in his smelly clothes, Brian’s gaze fell upon his bed once more. He still didn’t feel comfortable even touching the mattress, let alone sleeping on it, so he tried to figure out how to get rid of it. Maybe he should donate it to some homeless shelter or an AIDS hospice? Or, even better, he’d auction it off to the gay population of Pittsburgh and _then_ donate the money. He was sure to raise a lot of it; he figured there were bound to be a lot of fags willing to pay for the mattress the famous Brian Fucking Kinney had slept and shagged on.

Made up that he had his plan of attack for the afternoon of shopping ready, Brian grabbed the list he had made before his shower and left the loft. He had a lot to do.

 

“Jushun!” Gus crowed, squirming in Lindsay’s arms as Mel pushed the empty stroller into the diner behind her partner. Rain was streaming from the ponchos they’d donned to combat the cold, stormy weather, the little boy in his own bright yellow slicker.

The teenager set down the tub of dishes from the table he’d just bused, wiped his hands off on his apron, and jogged over to Lindsay.

“Thanks, Justin,” Lindsay exhaled in relief as the young man scooped the wriggling child out of her arms. “He’s been babbling, ‘Jushun, Jushun,’ practically nonstop since we told him we’d see you at the diner.”

“Meanwhile,” Melanie interjected wryly, “neither of us rates so much as a ‘Ma’”.

The girls shucked their dripping raingear and hung it from the pegs near the door, while Justin beamed at Gus, not minding in the least that the toddler was dampening the front of his t-shirt with his jacket. He probably shouldn’t be so proud that his name was the one Gus kept calling, but… It felt awfully good to have this Kinney scion so attached to him, especially since his encounters with the tyke’s father had been anything but pleasant lately. He’d been missing the child something fierce this last week and had been thinking of calling the lesbians to find out whether they had need of a babysitter. The teen had only delayed doing so because he hadn’t wanted to run into Brian at the munchers’ house. Surely the police would release the loft to Brian soon; then there would be far less likelihood of having to contend with the man when he visited the lesbians.

While those thoughts were flitting through his head, Gus cried out, “Jushun!” one more time, throwing his chubby little arms around the blond’s neck and snuggling under his chin.

“Like father, like son,” the teen thought, recalling how Brian had liked to fall asleep on top of him, his head in the hollow of Justin’s shoulder. Not that the brunet would ever have confessed to cuddling, of course.

A bright flash startled Justin, and he looked up to see Mel smiling as she lowered her camera.

“Aw, that’s going to be such a cute photo,” Lindsay cooed.

Rocking Gus in his arms, Justin asked, “Could I get a copy when you develop that roll of film?” If he wouldn’t have to field taunts from jerks like Hobbs and his cronies, he’d buy one of those binders into which one could insert a picture on the front cover and carry it with him all the time. The homophobic jocks at St. James would never stop harassing him, however; they’d jump to false conclusions, possibly even offering insincere congratulations on becoming a real man and dipping his dick into pussy.

“Of course, you can have a copy, Sweetie,” Melanie responded. “After all you’re as much a father to Gus as Brian… more so, in fact.”

“Now, Honey,” Lindsay remonstrated, “Brian is a good dad. You have to admit he’s been helping out a lot this past week.”

“He hasn’t seemed all that happy to take on diaper duty,” Mel retorted.

A shriek of laughter escaped Linds. “I wouldn’t describe any of us as ‘happy’ to do that. Gus packs a powerful stink.”

“Like father, like son,” Melanie muttered before she, too, started chuckling. “You’re right, though, changing a poopy diaper isn’t my favorite thing.”

“Are you giving your moms a hard time?” Justin asked Gus, placing a kiss on the tyke’s downy head.

“Ach, he’s an angel… most of the time,” Melanie acknowledged, reaching out to gently pat her son on the back.

“Unlike his father,” Lindsay ruefully admitted.

Justin was surprised to hear even such a mild rebuke from Linds; she had quite the soft spot for her college pal and usually understood Brian better than a certain ‘best friend’. It was true, he ruminated, that ‘angelic’ wasn’t an expression normally associated with the brunet. It wasn’t entirely unsuited to Brian either, though. Particularly when that soft, shy smile appeared on the man’s face - the one the teen had only seen directed toward himself or Gus - Brian looked almost sweet.

Justin refused to let himself dwell on the fact that he didn’t know when, or if ever, he’d next catch that smile on Brian’s face again. “Where would you ladies like to sit?” he inquired cheerfully.

“Where is everyone?” Lindsay glanced around in puzzlement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place so empty at noontime.”

Justin shrugged, “Deb and I were trying to suss that out earlier. We figure it’s a combination of fags hungover from celebrating Veterans Day at Babylon and weenies who can’t handle a little rain.”

A vivid flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder and pelting rain provoked Mel to shift uneasily and comment, “This is more than a ‘little’ rain. Maybe we should have stayed at home.”

“You’re safer here than you would be at home,” Justin hastened to reassure the girls, “what with the lightning protection system.”

“Even with all the windows?” Melanie stared dubiously at the large panes of glass.

“No place is completely safe,” Justin conceded, “but after a caff two blocks over was damaged by lightning ten years ago, the owner of this place made the diner as lightning-proof as possible. Just to be extra secure, how about this booth?” the teen suggested, leading them to a table along the windowless wall.

“How do you know all that?” Lindsay inquired curiously as she and Mel slid into the booth. “I mean, I’m from Pittsburgh, and don’t remember that incident.”

“Mostly from Debs and Vic,” the teen replied. “Plus, I’ve been leafing through a really neat book about the neighborhoods of Pittsburgh that we found when we started cleaning out the attic yesterday. There’s, like, really cool old photos and information about how fire and flood have destroyed parts of the city in the past, including fires sparked by lightning.”

“That must have happened when we were both away at university, immersed in our studies,” Melanie reflected, “although I am surprised we didn’t know about it.”

As the girls slid into the booth, Justin handed Gus to Lindsay, helping to peel off his yellow slicker, before hanging it next to their jackets and nabbing one of the highchairs for the little boy to sit in. When he returned with the chair, he clarified, “I don’t think anyone in that caff was badly injured. I’m sure Debbie would have told me if that were the case. I think it just put a scare into everyone.”

As she murmured, “That’s not so bad, then,” the frown on Lindsay’s brow cleared. “Have you had your lunch yet?” she asked the teen. “If not, maybe you could eat with us. It’s been ages since we had a good chinwag.”

“I could do with a bite,” Justin replied, his stomach grumbling at the mention of food. Darned tummy always betrayed his willingness to eat, he thought, blushing slightly when the girls giggled.

“Do you mind waiting till Debbie returns from her break?” the teenager inquired, just as the door banged open, a drenched, redheaded waitress rushing into the diner.

“Fuck! It’s colder than a witch’s tits,” she complained as she squelched her way over to their table. “I wasn’t expecting the wild and wooly wet weather, or I would have grabbed my anorak on my way out the door.”

“It’s monkeys outside and the rain is sheeting down,” Melanie concurred. “Those dark stormclouds came scudding in just as we were about to leave our house, so we bundled up in our trenchcoats. Otherwise, we’d be drowned rats, just like you.”

“Winter is coming,” Justin intoned solemnly, causing all three women to stare at him like he’d gone bonkers.

“What?” he defended himself. “George R. R. Martin’s books are the bomb.”

“Who’s that?” Lindsay questioned in confusion.

“Just, like, the greatest fantasy author since Tolkien,” the teen spluttered. “You really don’t know about the _Game of Thrones_ series?” he looked at the women in amazement.

“It’s all the rage,” Justin enthused. “Everyone at school is talking about it, even the teachers.”

“Are the books perhaps designed for a young adult audience?” Lindsay inquired.

Justin couldn’t decide how to respond to what was surely an unintentional insult. Linds couldn’t possibly think of him as a young adult, could she?

The lesbian’s eyes opened comically wide as it dawned on her that she’d lumped Justin in with kids in their early teens. “I didn’t mean _you_ , Justin,” she hastily reassured the teen.

Waving away her apology, Justin raved, “Martin has constructed this complex world that’s kind of like medieval Europe, with magic and supernatural creatures thrown in. What makes it so fascinating is the characterization, how no one’s purely good or evil, and the multiple motivations behind each person’s actions. Everyone really needs to band together to survive the long winter that’s descending on them, but most of them are too busy fighting each other to pay heed to the coming danger. And it’s definitely geared toward adults,” the teen concluded, “what with lots of raunchy sex and violence.”

“Doesn’t sound all that different from real life,” the redhead opined. “There’s lots of fucking going on here in the neighborhood. No shortage of violence either.”

“Not everything is about sex,” Lindsay claimed, a rather prudish look on her face.

“Since when?” Debbie hooted. “It’s scientific fact that a gay man thinks about sex every nine seconds. Isn’t that right, Sunshine?” she inquired of the teen.

“Ehm, more like every five seconds?” Justin muttered, gazing at the floor as his face turned crimson.

“Babe, we think about sex too,” Melanie remonstrated mildly. “In fact, we…”

Deb let out a mighty, “Achoo!” interrupting the conversation, and then sneezed loudly again.

Looking closely at the shivering redhead, Justin exclaimed, “Deb! You’re wet to the bone.”

“I know, Kiddo,” Debbie acknowledged, sniffling miserably.

“Why don’t you go home now, get out of those wet clothes, and warm up with a hot bath and a cuppa?” Justin suggested. When the waitress began to protest, the teen cajoled, “C’mon, Deb, you’d make me go home pronto if it was me getting ill, right?”

“It’s not the same,” the woman mutinously mumbled.

“It’s exactly the same,” the teen insisted. “Let me help you,” he begged. “I’m supposed to work until two o’clock anyhow, and it’s easy enough for me to stay till four, when you would get off.” When she still didn’t look convinced, he gestured at the nearly empty diner, “There’s next to no customers, and Harry will be here in less than two hours. We’ll be fine. Go, please.”

With the girls also urging her to go home and pamper herself, a stubborn Debbie finally acquiesced.

Standing up, Melanie offered, “Why don’t I give you a ride?”

“Oh, hush, and sit back down,” the redhead demurred. “It’ll be just as fast for me to walk home; your car would be hydroplaning all over the road.”

Justin helped Debbie into her anorak, gently teasing, “If you aren’t up to snuff this evening, you should just supervise while Vic and I clean the attic.”

“I’ll be fine by then,” Deb claimed, leaning over to peck the blond on the cheek before stepping out into the rain.

Justin gazed after Debbie as she walked down the sidewalk, feeling concerned about the motherly woman. From what he’d observed in the past week, she was always so busy taking care of others that she tended to neglect herself. He resolved to make sure she took it easy that evening, at the very least.

 

After coming back from the shops and a quick stop by the munchers’, arms burdened by almost a dozen shopping bags, Brian flopped down on the floor in the middle of the loft. He had already ordered the necessary furniture, but it hadn’t arrived yet, so he’d have to make do with the hardwood for now. Spreading the bags around himself, he began sorting the things he had bought. First, he decided to put away the coffee beans, hoping the coffee maker would arrive soon, so that he could brew a cup.

Next, the brunet unpacked the Egyptian cotton bed covers and towels - three sets of each. As he picked them up and headed for the bedroom, he made his customary detour around Justin’s backpack, which the boy never failed to leave at the foot of the stairs. Brian slid the folded sheets into a drawer in his closet, before stowing the new towels into a bathroom cabinet. Making his way back into the living room, the brunet noticed that the rucksack he had avoided wasn’t actually there. Huh. He could’ve sworn it had been exactly where it always was when he first saw the loft after the burglary. Had he imagined it? Or, he thought in annoyance, had Justin managed to sneak in and make away with it at some point during the past week? Brian realised that he had never actually asked the lad to return his key to the loft, so it was possible. The ad executive shook his head in disbelief; Justin really had some neck.

His thoughts were interrupted by his intercom. Establishing that it was the delivery service with his mattress, pillows, and duvets and not another group of burglars - now that he had stuff they could steal again - Brian buzzed them up. Two hunky blokes dragged in a rolled up king-size mattress and unpacked it for him. After he waved a couple bucks underneath their noses, they even agreed to roll up the old mattress, so he wouldn’t have to do it himself when he auctioned it off. Brian immediately began making his bed, stretching a dark blue fitted sheet over the newly acquired mattress and slipping his new pillows and blankets into equally deep blue bed covers.

Not having much to do at the moment, the brunet flopped down on the bed, not really caring that he was messing up his earlier efforts at straightening the sheets. Staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, he began planning his week. He had to prepare for two client pitches, one on Monday afternoon and the other on Wednesday morning, then there was the staff meeting on Friday morning and a client dinner in the evening. Getting up to fetch his planner, he opened the little booklet up at the appropriate week, before coming to a halt. Thursday, the 16th of November was Michael’s thirtieth birthday, and he hadn’t even thought of what to get the man as a present. He normally just bought a few comic-related knick-knacks or some rare edition comic book, but this year he had completely forgotten about doing his usual research. It was understandable with what had been happening this past week, Brian reckoned, but Mikey was bound to be disappointed when he received some thoughtless junk instead of the usual well-thought-out gift.

He sighed, desperately requiring something to relax him during his deliberations. Wait, he had just the ticket. The brunet stooped down and reached into the compartment under his bed, retrieving a reefer. He held the joint under his nose, inhaling deeply, a blissful expression on his face. Thank fuck he’d made time to retrieve his toy box and stash from the safety deposit box at the bank. Now he’d be able to strategize.

After lighting the doobie, he flopped back onto his bed, taking a long toke. Determined to figure something out, the brunet started making a mental list of things Michael wanted - outside of superpowers, because not even Brian could swing that. His best friend had never had much ambition except for perhaps wishing to become a manager at the Big Q, but the adman could hardly help with that. Mikey had also once mentioned that he’d always imagined having a comic book store as a kid, but Brian was hardly going to invest in someone who had never even seen a business textbook, no matter how good of a friend they were. It probably wasn’t anything Michael wanted anymore anyway.

Brian racked his brain, trying to remember any of his recent conversations with his best friend, but he had been so stressed out lately that he had spent most of his time ignoring the man rather than listening to him. There was a foggy memory of Mikey begging Brian to accompany him to next year’s Comic Con, but the ad executive could hardly take a several day holiday from work.

Brian’s planning was interrupted by another buzz of his intercom. This time there were two delivery guys at his door - one bearing a first-rate DeLonghi coffee maker and the other from Italian Moda, bringing furniture. After dealing with both men, again sparing a few dollars to have the machine installed and the furniture unboxed, Brian returned to his bed. There just had to be something that he could give his best friend, preferably something that would keep the man a little busy, so that he wouldn’t be constantly hanging around him. Don’t get him wrong, he genuinely cared for the older man, but he wasn’t a hero, and it would be better for both of them if Mikey realised that. Brian mused that he had probably been a little too dependent on Michael, too, relying on the man to cart him around when he was drunk or high, regaling him with his sexual exploits. Small wonder, then, that his friend hadn’t been able to let go.

Maybe if Michael had a colleague who wasn’t gay that he could depend on at work? Or a significant other he could confide in? A figurative light bulb appeared above his head as Brian grinned at his ceiling - why not give him both? He could throw Michael a birthday do as a present and invite someone who would make a good friend as well as some fit hunk that would make a good boyfriend.

Brian shifted frustratedly on the bed as he pondered how to break the news to the girl - what the heck was her name? - that Mikey was gay. Maybe he could track her down at the Big Q that evening, but he still had to figure out how to approach the matter. Ugh, dealing with heteros really wasn’t his forte. What if whatshername outed Michael to the rest of his colleagues? That wouldn’t be doing his friend any favours. So, Brian would have to chat with the girl to determine whether she could be trusted. The brunet tried to imagine how the conversation might go once he’d divulged that Mikey was gay. What could he say when the woman asked - as she was almost certain to do - why Brian was telling her this?

He could hardly claim that it was because he’d benefitted from being completely out and proud. Sure, he’d always been openly gay in the workplace, but he’d never had the balls to out himself to his parents. Other than Michael, Debbie, and Vic, none of his friends were even aware of what a coward he was in that respect. Telling himself it was bound to go badly was just an excuse. He still couldn’t picture confronting his parents, however. Jack would probably throw a punch and roar at him to get out of the house, while Joan would start praying loudly to Christ and all the saints to lead Brian back to the path of righteousness.

Grimacing, the brunet shunted aside that unpleasant scenario. He’d deal with that another time. For now, he needed to help Michael. He firmly ignored the hypocrisy of helping Michael but not himself.

At that moment,  he got another great idea - if he managed to find Dr David and somehow put him and Mikey back together, he would not only get his friend off his back, he would also get back into Debbie’s good graces. She wasn’t exactly angry, but she had been a bit shirty with him ever since Michael and David had broken up, thinking Brian was to blame. On top of that, perhaps if he had a chat with his best friend’s girlfriend at the Big Q and invited her to the knees-up, Mikey would find a good friend he could confide in. It was time he came out to her anyroad; the poor lass was probably picking out baby names by now.

That was settled then, thought Brian; he would invite Dr David, the girl from the Big Q, and the gang and, Bob’s your uncle, he had a present. He wouldn’t actually have to buy more than just some ordinary comic book figurine then. They could celebrate at Michael and Emmett’s flat - that way Brian wouldn’t have to pay for a lounge; he could use Emmett’s party planning hobby to his advantage; and wouldn’t even have to join in on the clean up. Happy he had everything figured out, Brian went to the kitchen and made himself a proper cup of coffee. The blunt had mellowed him out so much that he now needed the stimulation of caffeine before braving the Big Q.  

 

Justin delivered meals to a trio of university students who were working on a project together as well as topping up the coffee cup of an older gent who was perusing his newspaper. Then he carried a tray full of food and a pot of tea over to the girls’ table.

“I hope bangers and mash is okay,” he stated as he set down the plates. “Fahad’s the chef today, and he’s gone all homesick for the years he lived in Dublin as a child.”

“That’s a fuckton of food,” a nonplussed Melanie eyed her full plate askance.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you with it,” the teenager responded with a toothy grin. “Anyroad, you’ll want to leave room for the bread and butter pudding. I tasted a spoonful and it’s to die for.”

“We can’t pass that up,” Lindsay readily agreed. “Our nanny used to make that for me and Lynette when we were little.”

Spooning up a bit of mashed potato and gravy, Justin asked, “Is it okay if I feed Gus some of this? It’s about as finely pureed as it gets.”

“Aw, you wuv mash, don’t you, my little lambskin?” Linds directed her cooing response to her son.

The teen did his best to hide a wince at the baby talk. He had hoped the girls were past that after last Sunday’s dinner, but evidently Lindsay was backsliding. He really needed to spend additional time with Gus, interacting with him on a more adult level so his development wouldn’t be stymied.

“Gosh, he’s so good for you,” Melanie observed when Gus eagerly swallowed a mouthful.

“Must be because I named him,” the teen replied with a smug grin.

“And play with him, draw with him, eat with him…” Lindsay broke off, laughing when Justin lifted the next spoonful of creamy potato to his own mouth.

The tyke began to bang on his tray, opening his mouth for more.

After finely dicing a bit of the sausage and making sure Linds nodded in approval, Justin scooped up the meat and potato mixture before feeding it to Gus.

The little boy swallowed happily, a bit of juice dribbling down his chin.

“Good stuff, huh, Gus?” Justin conversed with the child, eating a few more bites himself.

“Brian will be thrilled that we’ve introduced Gus to diner cuisine,” Melanie commented drolly, making the other two adults laugh.

“For all that he bitches about the food, he still eats here at least once, if not twice a day,” Justin mentioned.

“Brian’s diet is so ridiculous,” Melanie sniffed in disdain. “I mean he won’t touch Linds’ delicious lasagne, kvetching about all the carbs, but then he’ll come to the diner and sneak fries off his friends’ plates. Talk about carbohydrate heaven.”

Justin thought to himself that the brunet had probably just wanted to avoid that flavourless vegan pasta with the texture of cardboard and not carbs. Stifling a sigh of regret that Brian was no longer snitching chips off _his_ plate, he dished up another mouthful of mash for the man’s son.

“Oops! Runaway potato,” the teen laughed as Gus batted at that spoonful before it reached his mouth, sending the meat and potato concoction flying into Justin’s hair.

“Oh my god!” Melanie choked on a bit of sausage, clapping a hand to her mouth and whooping with laughter at the sight.

“Do you want a wet wipe?” a giggling Lindsay offered, reaching into her mammoth tote bag.

The blond accepted the moist tissue, gently wiping off the tyke’s chin before dabbing at his hair. So much for Gus being on his best behavior with him...

Lindsay watched as Justin tried to remove the congealing mess, sighing enviously. “My son stole my hair. It used to be just like yours.”

“Huh?” Justin blinked at Lindsay; he’d only ever seen her hair as it was now. How could Gus have stolen it anyway?

“It used to be just as thick and lustrous as yours,” the blonde woman recollected, “until I got pregnant with Gus. Now it’s flat and thin.”

“Maybe it’ll rebound once you stop breastfeeding?” Justin speculated.

Melanie stared at the teen in astonishment. “The doctor told us there was a fifty-fifty chance of that happening. How could you know that?”

The teen shrugged in response. He’d had no clue if that might be the case, but Lindsay had looked so forlorn about her dulled hair that he had wanted to offer some comfort. Who knew he’d guess right?

“God, I hope that’s true for me,” Lindsay wished, running a hand through Justin’s hair.

Her son apparently thought that was a great idea, one pudgy fist tugging at Justin’s hair from the other side.

Melanie quickly pulled out her camera again, taking another snapshot and announcing, “That one goes on our mantelpiece.”

“I guess I’ll see it when I babysit,” the teen offered, carefully disentangling Gus’ fingers from his hair. “Speaking of babysitting, do you need me to watch him anytime soon? I miss my little buddy.”

“Maybe in a week or so, just before Thanksgiving?” Lindsay proposed. “We’ve been thinking of going out on a date.”

“Yeah,” Melanie agreed, “we need to take some time for romance. We’re so busy all the time, and we want to keep the spark alive.”

Justin couldn’t help but feel sad that there would be no such opportunity for him and Brian. Their relationship had ended practically before it had begun, while the lesbians had been together for six years.

Covering the teen’s hand with her own, Lindsay commented, “You’re welcome at our house anytime, you know. You can hang out with Gus, we can draw together, whatever you want.”

Clearing his throat, Justin replied, “Thanks. You might get sick of me, you know.”

“Never!” both women chimed in unison.

The rain and wind lessened as they finished eating their lunch, a few more queers trickling into the diner, so Justin got up to serve them after only a couple spoonfuls of pudding. Before the girls departed, each of them kissed the teen on the cheek, Melanie murmuring that she’d see him later that evening.

 

Brian meandered down the aisles at the Big Q, keeping an eye out for Mikey’s little girlfriend. He sneered disdainfully at all the junk for sale, estimating most of it was made in China. It disconcerted him to remember a rare point of agreement with Jack, who’d thought that quality goods should be made in America rather than cheap substitutes being imported from other countries. Not that he’d hesitate to advertise junk, as long as he was paid enough, the adman mused; however, that was unlikely to happen with _this_ garbage.

Dammit, trying to help Michael be honest with whatsherface had him dredging up thoughts of Jack again. Facing the bigoted, womanizing bully wouldn’t be easy, if he could actually find the gumption. How the hell had that seventeen-year-old brat managed what Brian couldn’t handle at nearly-? Brian quickly cut that thought off; no way was he going to think of that dreaded day. Besides, he had nearly three quarters of a year to go, while his best friend only had a few days of youth left.

The brunet’s nervous thoughts skittered back to Jack and then to Joan. Why the fuck shouldn’t he tell his parents he was gay? he wondered. They could hardly treat him more indifferently than they already did. But, then again, for that selfsame reason, why should he out himself? He rarely saw either parent as it was. Ignoring the tiny voice whispering that he still craved his parents’ love and acceptance, he shelved the topic. Really, it would be a waste of time, since it wouldn’t change his life at all.

The situation with Michael was not the same, of course. Brian was altruistically doing his best to ensure that Mikey would have one friend on his side at work. Fuck, the man was fortunate to have a good friend like him to help out - the brunet had to pat himself on the back for his generosity.

With Michael in mind, the brunet continued to casually look around for whatshername. He wasn’t even sure the girl was working, but he couldn’t exactly page her via the intercom when he didn’t remember her name. He certainly wasn’t about to try describing her to that heavy-set blonde employee, who had leered at him and licked her chops as he’d entered the box store. Brian suspected that might have been the interfering fatty Michael often mentioned - Marcia, Laverne, some female name or other.

He’d only met Mikey’s ‘girlfriend’ in passing a couple months ago, when he’d been on the prowl, his focus on the trick he was pursuing. Brian’s memory of her was therefore hazy; he mainly recalled that Michael had passed him off as his ‘gay’ friend to a rubbernecking trio of girls gawping at the sights on Liberty Avenue. The adman had never appreciated being stared at as if he were some sort of sideshow freak simply because he was gay, so he had decided not to pay the scene much attention.

The brunet had gotten a bit of petty revenge, making the girl think Michael was enamored of her. He’d only admitted to himself as he was planning the party this afternoon, that it had been a rather shitty thing of him to do to his best friend. If Brian could only figure out how to tell her that ‘Mike’ wanted a boyfriend rather than a girlfriend, while still ensuring she would have Michael’s back at work, everything would sort itself out.

“Do I know you?” someone suddenly inquired, startling Brian, who discovered he’d halted in the middle of an aisle and was staring at cartons of tampons, of all things.

Recoiling from those revolting packages, he turned and came face to face with Michael’s ‘girlfriend’. “Uh,” he grunted less than eloquently, having completely forgotten what he wanted to say to the woman.

“Oh, you’re Mike’s friend, Brian, aren’t you?” she announced, recognition dawning on her face. “Did you want some help figuring out which brand to buy?” she motioned toward the feminine hygiene products. “For your mother or your sister?” she questioned brightly.

Fuck. As if he’d buy those _things_ for his mother or sister, whose existence the brunet preferred to forget. Their cycle had probably long dried up anyway with how bitter they both were.

Brian didn’t want to deal with any more difficult women today. He had yet to get the best of one single encounter. First there’d been the stone-faced Detective Wu, who’d completely intimidated him. Then Mel had practically thrown his clothes at him and shoved him out the door when he’d gone to collect his things at the House of Munch, with even Lindsay seeming quite enthusiastic about his departure as well. Now he’d somehow gotten himself into this ridiculous conversation, when it should have been relatively simple to deal with Mikey’s ‘girlfriend’.

“I was hoping to run into you,” the brunet stated, ignoring the girl’s question and steering her away from those despicable packets.

“Yes?” the young woman asked, tilting her head curiously.

Brian prompted, “Maybe there’s somewhere we could talk privately?”

“We could go to the outdoor smoking area,” she suggested uncertainly. “I doubt anyone’s out there in this wintry weather.”

“Perfect,” the brunet muttered, “I could use a smoke.” He motioned the saleswoman forward, “Lead the way.”

“Let me just tell Marley I’m going on my break and grab my coat,” she responded, jogging toward the front of the store. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Once they were outside, Brian immediately lit a cigarette, gratefully inhaling the nicotine into his lungs.

The woman shook her head when he offered her one. “I don’t smoke,” she commented. A worried frown forming on her face, she inquired,“Is something wrong with Mike? Is that why you’re here?”

Okay, maybe this would go over better if Brian shouldered some of the blame for the situation, he decided. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with Michael, but there’s something important that he should have shared with you. And it’s partly my fault that he hasn’t done that.” Ugh, the brunet thought, this was veering perilously close to an apology. Disgusting.

The girl stared at him in puzzlement, not uttering a word.

“I knew you fancied ‘Mike’ when we met on Liberty Avenue,” Brian explained, “but because I was pissed off at Michael, I told you that he liked you a whole lot.”

Eyebrows rising, the woman hmmed, encouraging Brian to continue.

“Well, I kinda exaggerated,” Brian confessed.

“What do you mean?” the salesgirl asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Michael thinks you’re nice, but he’s not interested in you as a girlfriend.” Brian elaborated. Goddammit, how long was it going to take him to tell the woman Michael was gay?

“What are you on about?” she inquired suspiciously, backing away slightly. “Are you high or something?”

The way he was rambling, it really wasn’t a surprise that the ‘girlfriend’ couldn’t fathom what the normally articulate adman was trying to spit out. She seemed to really care about Mikey, so he was going to have to take a chance and trust her. After a deep drag from his cigarette, he blurted, “Michael’s gay.”

“You what? I don’t understand. Michael’s not gay,” the bewildered girl replied, backing up another step. “I mean, he told me how he’s been your friend since high school, taking you to football games and all.” She was beginning to look a bit desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself.

Fuck, Mikey had better appreciate the sacrifice Brian was making for him - setting foot inside the Big Q and dealing with a female on the verge of hysteria, all so his friend could have a straight ally in the workplace. “It’s true that we’ve been friends since high school, but it’s also true that we’ve both always been queer.” Brian replied.

“But, why didn’t he tell me?" she implored. Whatsherface didn’t say anything else for for a couple of minutes as she assimilated what Brian had told her, finally sputtering, “Why did he lead me on? I made a fool of myself, thinking he was interested in me.”

“He didn’t know if he could trust you,” Brian bluntly declared. “He feels bad for leading you on, but he’s in a no-win situation; the Big Q isn’t exactly queer-friendly and with the potential promotion... He won’t have any chance of becoming a manager if the higher-ups find out Michael’s gay.”

The woman’s face flushed with anger. “He should have told me himself,” she accused, “rather than sending you to do it for him.”

What a fucked-up situation. Now the girl thought Brian was Mikey’s errand boy. “Michael doesn’t know I’m here,” the ad exec gritted out, “so please don’t spread it around that Michael’s gay. He does value you as a friend, and since he’s never had a straight friend, I hoped you would have his back at work.”

“Maybe. Mike should have been honest with me. I don’t…” the woman paused, clearly trying to gather her wits, “I don’t know what do think or do.”

“Look,” Brian offered, “I’m throwing a surprise party for Michael’s thirtieth birthday this coming Thursday. You’re invited - you could talk to him then and sort it out.” He pressed a card into the woman’s hand, “This is the address for the place the party is being held; I’ve written my mobile number beneath it. You can call me if you need directions. The party starts at eight o’clock.”

When she didn’t respond, the ad exec abruptly turned on his heel and walked away. Not the best pitch he’d ever given, but Brian had done what he needed to do. Now it was up to the girl - and Michael.

The brunet was shaking his head as he got into his jeep, realizing he’d just had a lengthy conversation with the now ‘ex-girlfriend’ without ever remembering the woman’s name. That had to be a first. The stud was rather horrified at how he’d fumbled, but he’d been thrown off by doing something so atypical for him. He could much more easily envision a scenario in which he would have pushed Mikey out of the closet by inviting the ‘girlfriend’ to the party, ignorant of what she would encounter, and let the chips fall where they would. If he’d just slept on it before approaching the girl, it undoubtedly would have gone much more smoothly.

 

When Justin got home shortly after four o’clock, he was more than ready to tackle the attic again. The diner had still been quiet when he’d left, and although Justin had enjoyed chatting with Harry, there really hadn’t been enough to keep the two of them occupied. They’d even ended up thoroughly cleaning the coffee maker, which had gleamed so brightly by the time they were done that it had been difficult to believe it was the same machine. “We’d better watch out,” Harry had quipped. “We’re bound to get complaints that the coffee doesn’t taste right anymore. I remember my granny ragging on my mum after she scoured the Brown Betty one time; claimed the tea was off and refused to drink another cuppa brewed in that pot for at least a month.”

“You’re pulling my leg, right?” he had gaped at Harry, who could be quite the prankster.

“Nope. True story,” the other waiter had insisted and then, shrugging, he’d added, “I guess you have to be a tea connoisseur to understand.”

Justin smiled, remembering that story as he entered the living room, where _Gay as Blazes_ was blaring from the telly. Vic stood up, tromped across the room, and turned off the television, grousing, “What a bunch of drivel. It’s so goddamn PC that the characters are completely wooden and not at all representative of actual fags.”

“Pure tripe,” Debbie hawked out - along with some phlegm - from the couch, where she was curled up underneath a gaudy purple and pink afghan. She groped around for a Kleenex, bringing it to her lips to clean up the mucous.

His brow furrowing, the teen set down the bag filled with bangers and mash - as well as more pudding for dessert, this time with the added fillip of whiskey. Fahad really had overdone it with the home cooking and had pleaded with Justin to take some of it off his hands. The blond had been happy to comply since that meant none of them would need to make time to cook dinner.

Justin moved toward the redhead and leaned down to place the back of one hand against her forehead, relieved when Debbie didn’t seem to have a fever. He was surprised, though, that the fiery redhead didn’t slap his hand away and make an acerbic comment about how she didn’t need looking after.

Before he could ask Debs if she had a fever, Vic harrumphed, “I finally got Sis to take her temperature a few minutes ago. Just above normal, but I’m worried about the cough that has gotten much worse in the last couple of hours.”

“I’m right here,” the redhead protested weakly, the usual vigor missing from  her voice.

“And ‘right here’ is where you’ll be staying, mia sorella,” Vic confirmed.

“I want to help,” Debbie fretted, even as her eyes began to close.

“We’ll show you all the treasures we find,” Justin assured his surrogate mother, her lips curving upward in response, just before she emitted a soft snore.

“Was that crazy Arab homesick for his Irish roots again?” Vic inquired, appreciatively inhaling the tantalizing aromas wafting from the bag the teen was carrying toward the kitchen.

“He’s from Iran, Vic, not one of the Arab countries,” the blond chided as he placed the various containers in the fridge. “Plus, he became an Irish citizen years ago.”

“I like to get his dander up by calling him an Arab,” Vic countered with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “It gives the bloke a chance to lecture me about the differences between Persians and Arabs - which he never hesitates to do.”

Justin had to laugh at the older man’s shenanigans. “It is true Fahad likes to talk about his heritage,” he chuckled, “even claims he’s descended from Mandana and King Cyrus the Great.”

“And Agassi’s his cousin,” Vic chortled as they climbed the stairs to the attic, a couple bottles of beer he’d appropriated to ‘wet their whistles’ in his hands.

“Harry says the guy does play a mean game of tennis,” the blond related, chuckling.

“Must be kin then,” Vic jested with a tongue-in-cheek smirk.

Justin was startled to see Brian’s trademark expression on Vic’s face for the first time. Had Brian picked it up from the older man? It was possible - as far as the teen knew - Vic being the only true father figure his ex-lover had ever known. Dammit, the teen castigated himself, he was thinking about Brian again. He was sure that he thought about the brunet even more frequently than the five-second intervals in which he thought about sex. Then again, he snorted to himself, Brian and sex were pretty much inextricable from one another.

Resolutely pushing aside thoughts of his ex-lover for the umpteenth time that day, he resumed, “I asked Fahad if he wouldn’t like to be an American citizen, and he said he’s fine with a green card. Ireland may not be the best country for queers, but he doesn’t think it’s much better in the U.S.”

“He’s probably right,” Vic somberly conceded as he pulled a dust mask over his face. “It hasn’t been all that long since Matthew Shepard was murdered.”

“Fuck,” Justin shuddered, “that was a huge topic at St. James two years ago. The consensus among the faculty and most of the students, though, was that he was asking to be killed - just because he was gay,” Justin concluded bitterly.

“At least the two students who killed him were given life sentences,” Vic declared. “It was a rare occasion when justice was done, even though it was too little, too late.” He turned toward Justin and placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders, stating seriously, “You know, Kiddo, you look a bit like Shepard. I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful, that you won’t let yourself get bashed by homophobes.”

Shaken, the young man croaked out, “I’ll be as careful as possible, Vic. But I can’t just give into the bullies. Otherwise, nothing will ever change.”

“I know that,” Vic admitted, “but it would break my heart - and Deb’s - if something happened to you. So you need to promise me that you’ll think twice before you act. Okay?”

“Okay,” Justin promised, blinking away tears. He was incredibly grateful that Vic and Debbie loved him just as much as he loved them.

“Now, enough of this mushy shit.” Vic bumped Justin’s shoulder with his own. “Let’s get this attic shipshape for Debs, shall we?”

The two men set to work, heaping more stuff onto the trash and sale stacks, setting aside a few things for the redhead to examine, and adding a couple of items to replace in the attic.

After they’d been sifting through boxes for about an hour, Vic pulled out an old corset, which he pretended to don, swanning around in his best Marlene Dietrich impression.

The teen sagged back onto the old writing desk he’d been polishing and fended off the femme fatale. “I’m sorry, miss,” he gasped between gusts of laughter, “but I only like men.”

“Why then, I shall be a man,” ‘Marlene’ declared in a deep voice, discarding the corset and advancing on the giggling teen with a lecherous expression. Vic proceeded to tickle Justin with the feather duster until he begged for mercy.

After helping the red-faced blond stand up from where he’d been sprawled across the rolltop desk, Vic swatted the younger man on the bum and playfully ordered, “Back to work, you laggard.”

“This desk is so cool,” Justin gushed as he rolled back the top of the desk, exposing all sorts of cubbyholes.

“It was Nonna’s pride and joy,” Vic revealed. “Nonno had a paint shop, and Nonna did the bookkeeping. My grandfather could match colors like no one’s business,” he reminisced. “He’d take a look at a paint chip, the wall of a house, or a swatch of cloth, and the next thing you knew - Presto! - he’d mixed that exact hue.”

“What happened to the shop?” Justin asked curiously.

“The Great Depression happened,” Vic replied. “Because Nonno was an established businessman, the bank actually offered to carry the mortgage until he could make payments again, but he was too proud to let that happen. He insisted on travelling around the eastern seaboard, picking up whatever kind of work he could find so he could send money to Nonna to feed the kids.”

“Those must have been incredibly hard years,” Justin commisserated. “I can’t imagine not having enough to eat.” A shudder rippled through the lad’s slender frame as he briefly wondered whether he might have gone hungry if he’d actually fled to New York after the burglary.

“The Grassis are a tough lot,” Vic announced. “We always survive.”

While Vic had been talking about his grandparents, Justin had been poking through the old desk. “What’s this?” he asked, pulling a photo album out of one of the drawers and flipping it open on the escritoire.

“That’s the family album, with photos of my great-grandparents, grandparents, and parents,” Vic exclaimed, taking the book from the teen. “I wonder how it ended up in this old rolltop. I remember Sis turning the house upside down a couple years ago trying to find this scrapbook.” Vic turned the pages until he was almost at the back of the album, before pointing toward a proudly smiling couple holding a baby in their arms. “That’s Nonno and Nonna with Papa.”

“You really take after your grandad, Vic,” Justin noted as he examined the black and white photo.

“Only better looking,” Vic joshed, brushing his thumb across the picture. “Salt of the earth,” he murmured to the photo of his grandparents before closing the book. “Deb’s going to be so chuffed that you found this album, Sunshine. It’s bound to make her feel better.”

Justin smiled happily as Vic set the album on top of the other items they wanted to show Deb. As the older man moved deeper into the attic, the teen noticed that a photo had fallen out of the back of the album. He picked it up, meaning to replace it, but stopped as he examined the beaming trio in the picture. He recognized the younger, teenage versions of Debbie and Vic and figured the other youngster must be a cousin, since there seemed to be a family resemblance.  

As he gazed at the photo, Justin couldn’t help but notice how happy the three teens looked. A drawing based off the picture would make a great Christmas present for Debbie and Vic, the blond decided. He felt a bit guilty about borrowing the picture, but the photo was much more recent than the others in the album, so he didn’t think it would be missed. And he’d return it immediately after the siblings opened the gift. His conscience assuaged, Justing placed the photo inside the notebook he’d carried up to the attic for purposes of making an inventory. He was compiling two separate lists - one of items for sale, and a full record of what was stored in the attic.

The two men made quite a bit of progress over the next hour and a half and were considering taking a break for dinner, when a loud rumble from Justin’s stomach decided the matter.

“Good lord, I didn’t realize you’d brought home enough food to feed an Army,” Vic claimed a few minutes later, opening the fridge door and staring at the numerous containers on the shelves. “This is more food than Sis makes for three meals,” the stunned man professed.

“Yeah, I know. Fahad went a little nuts.” Justin disclosed, grabbing some of the cartons to heat up the food.

“That crazy Arab must have taken into account that you’re a growing boy,” Vic joked.

“I wouldn’t mind a few more inches,” the blond ruefully admitted. Immediately realizing what he’d just said, he stuttered, “Ehm, no, that is… I mean, I have plenty of inches _there_.” Vic just laughed uproariously as his face got progressively redder.

It didn’t take the men long to polish off the sausages and potatoes, before scarfing down some of the butter and bread pudding. “Fuck,” Justin observed, “that whiskey really does make it better.”

“I think Fahad must have gotten out his private stock of Irish,” Vic noted, “just for you, Kiddo.”

“He can do that anytime,” the teen declared, pleasantly stuffed after two heaping servings of the main course followed by two sizable helpings of dessert.

Before heading back upstairs, the two men checked on Debbie to be sure she was resting comfortably.

Even with the dust masks, both men had sneezing fits when they reached the far end of the attic. The fine particles of grime were layered particularly thickly in that area, and what seemed like whole tumbleweeds of dust were rolling about. “Shit,” Vic complained, “I wonder when anyone was last back here. Must’ve been before the war or something.”

They uncovered various Christmas decorations, which they stacked near the entrance to the attic. Those would come in useful in less than a month, they agreed. Justin then remarked in perplexity as he withdrew a battered tin box, “This doesn’t look like it belongs here.” The teen scraped at the edge of the container, where the lid had rusted to the body of the metal casing, with the point of the pocketknife Vic had handed him.

The lid suddenly sprang open, dumping a few pieces of pasteboard into the teen’s lap. “These look like old baseball cards,” Vic squinted at the two badly faded, dogeared ones on top of the small pile, “but I can’t tell who they’re supposed to be.”

Thumbing through more of the cardboard squares, Justin halted in shock, a strangled “Holy Shit!” escaping as he held the card out toward the older man.

“I’ll be damned,” Vic breathed out, goggling at the item. “That’s an autographed Babe Ruth baseball card in mint condition - must be worth a pretty penny. That’s some treasure you own, Sunshine.”

“Huh?” the bewildered teen grunted. “It’s not mine.”

“It is,” Vic insisted. “Deb promised you your pick of whatever treasures we unearthed.”

Justin hadn’t been able to tear his gaze away from the card. Wouldn’t that be the perfect gift for Molly to display with her signed baseball? It didn’t belong to him, though. “I can’t take advantage of Debbie like that,” the blond protested, “this must be worth hundreds of dollars.”

“Probably thousands,” Vic countered. “That looks like an original to me, not a repro.”

“It can’t be that valuable,” the teen argued, his stomach roiling as he realized the signed baseball his dad had given Molly must have cost even more. It still hurt so damned much, the way Craig completely favored his daughter over his son.

When Justin attempted to hand the card to Vic, the man backed away. “Like I said Sunshine, it’s yours,” he repeated.

The blond huffed, “Fine. I’ll simply give it to Debs.” It was just as well he couldn’t accept the card, he decided. He’d be torn between saving it for Molly as a Christmas gift, or selling it and depositing the money to pay off Brian. Justin carefully set the card back inside the tin and placed the tin atop the writing desk, which now resided near the entrance to the attic.

“Good luck,” Vic cackled. “You’ll need it to change Sis’ mind.”

The teen was certain Debbie wouldn’t quibble. The card was hers, and the money from it would come in handy. Ignoring Vic’s knowing look, he returned to sorting out the attic.

At half seven, the men finally finished cleaning and then took turns to tote five large, heavy-duty trash bags down the stairs, dumping them next to the outdoor dustbin. The items for sale had been neatly stacked along one wall, while the furniture, boxes, and other things that were being retained had been organised and neatly labelled to make them easy to locate. They carried the things for Deb to examine on one last trip down the stairs, placing them near the kitchen table.

“My aching back,” Vic moaned, trying to work out the kinks, his bones popping as he twisted and turned.

“You’re just getting old and creaky,” Justin teased, skipping backward when Vic swatted at him.

“You’ll pay for that,” Vic threatened playfully.

“Only if you catch me,” the teen jested, dashing toward the bathroom, where he took a quick shower when he noticed Vic hadn’t attempted to chase after him. He luxuriated in the hot water, grateful the technician had easily been able to easily repair the furnace late that morning - something to do with a clogged valve, according to Vic. After removing the grit from his skin, he changed into fresh sweats and a tee. He then bounded down the stairs to the kitchen to heat up dinner for Debbie, while Vic took his turn at washing up.

“C’mon, Debs, wake up,” the blond gently shook the redhead’s shoulder.

“Go ’way,” she grumbled, burrowing deeping into the sofa.

The teen cajoled, “You’ll feel better if you eat something; you need to keep up your strength.” His persistence finally paid off, as he convinced Debbie to get up and move to the dining table.

Deb sipped at the tea Justin had brewed, while the blond dished up some of the potatoes and sausage, also taking a serving for himself. “Keep drinking,” he urged, “the catechins will do you good.”

“The what?” Debbie mumbled.

“They’re antioxidants in green tea that’ll help you fight off that cold,” Justin explained as he sat down next to the redhead. “Besides, the tea tastes good, and it’ll keep you warm.”

“Okay, you little know-it-all,” Deb acquiesced, sipping more avidly at her tea when she saw Justin enjoying a cuppa himself.

Once the redhead had become more alert, Justin opened the tin with the baseball card and pushed it across the table toward her.

“Babe Ruth,” she immediately identified the baseball player, before reminiscing, “Nonna had a bit of a crush on him, and Nonno revelled in teasing her about it.”

“Maybe your Nonno bought it for her?” Justin speculated. “You’ll have to determine whether you want to sell it or keep it as a family heirloom.”

“I may have a cold, Sunshine, but I’m not senile,” Debbie claimed. “I’m not going to let you welch on our deal.”

“What deal?” the flabbergasted teen shrilled.

“The one where you get the pick of the treasures from the attic,” the redhead replied, examining Justin shrewdly.

“Well, then, I’ll choose something else,” Justin declared, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nope, ‘pick’ means ‘best’,” Debbie adamantly rejoined. “Tsk, tsk, Sunshine, I thought you’d know that, being so good at English and all.”

“Nice try, Kiddo,” Vic wisecracked from behind Justin, his eyes twinkling as he moved toward the table. “I told you Sis wouldn’t take it.”

“But… but…” the teen sputtered, at a loss for words. How could they just give him this valuable card as if it were no big deal?

“It’s yours, Kiddo,” Deb reiterated. “Not only are you a big help to me and Vic, you’re our family.” Deliberately changing the subject, she pushed her mug toward the teen, “How about another cuppa? It’s definitely perking me right up.”

At half eight, as the three of them were oohing and ahing over the delicious, whiskey-laced pudding, the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Justin exclaimed loudly, “I forgot Melanie was coming over.” All his worries about not being able to open a bank account and establish himself as an independent adult came rushing back, causing the lad to wring his hands nervously.

“Easy, Sunshine, she’s on your side,” Debbie assured the teenager as Vic went to answer the door.

“Hiya, Mel,” the young man squeaked, giving a little wave as the lawyer entered the kitchen, briefcase in hand. He wondered for a moment if they might have cranked the heat up too high as a bead of perspiration trickled down his face. Surreptitiously blotting his chin, he noted that no one else seemed affected - must’ve been all because he was so anxious.

“Can I get you some tea and pudding?” he offered, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste to stand up. He quickly grabbed the back of the chair, the legs dragging across the linoleum as he righted it, making a squealing noise. “Geesh,” the embarrassed young man muttered to himself; he was rarely so clumsy.

“Ta, no pudding - I’m stuffed from dinner - but tea sounds good,” the lawyer replied. “I could use a cuppa to warm me up; it’s even colder now than it was earlier.”

“Looks like it might snow… I can feel it in my tennis elbow,” Vic joked, cradling his left elbow as if it were paining him.

“Hah!” Deb exclaimed, “As if. I remember the time we took a tennis lesson together… When you went to serve, you nailed that poor instructor in the nuts with your racket.”

“Really?” Justin wheezed, the light-hearted camaraderie relaxing him. “How’d you manage _that_?”

“I had a helluva backswing,” Vic deadpanned. “Seriously, I’m not sure how it happened, but I never was much of an athlete.”

“My friend Millie, who was dating the bloke back then, figured it _served_ him right since she’d just found out he was two-timing her,” Debbie cackled, setting off another round of laughter.

“Pour me a cuppa, would ya, Sunshine?” Vic requested. “I’m going to park myself in front of the telly and get ready for _The X-Files_. Mulder’s kinda hot, and I want to find out whether Scully succeeds in tracking down her missing partner.”

Once Vic had ambled off to the living room, Justin poured tea for Melanie before topping up Debbie’s and his cups. Swallowing hard, he looked directly at the lesbian and asked, “So what’s the scoop about the bank account?”

The attorney opened her briefcase and took out some papers. “As I mentioned on the phone, the simplest option would be for you to open an account with a parent. Are you sure that’s not a possibility, maybe with your mom?” she queried.

“Um, no, that won’t work,” he stuttered. “My mom wouldn’t do that without my dad’s permission. Plus, she’d be sure to try and use it to control me, pressure me to recant my gayness.”

Frowning in distaste at that, the lawyer declared, “We’ll scotch that idea, then. I also looked into emancipation, but that wouldn’t do much good, since you wouldn’t have the legal status of an adult, and you still wouldn’t be able to open a bank account. Lastly, I researched legal guardianship, thinking you might like to have Debbie for a guardian. She could open an account with you.”

“Fuck, yes,” the redhead interjected passionately, “Let’s do that. I’d be happy to be Sunshine’s guardian. He’s already another son to me.” Motioning toward Justin, she claimed, “We’ve already got that _in loco parentis_ thing going, as far as I’m concerned.”

Justin felt tears prickling in his eyes as he reached over to take Debbie’s hand in his own. He didn’t think he’d done anything special to make her feel that way, but he was fucking grateful to have this incredible woman on his side.

The legal beagle looked at the two of them with a soft smile on her face, before clearing her throat and elaborating, “While you _could_ petition for guardianship, Justin, it would be much simpler with a letter of consent from your parents. You’d still need to file a petition - preferably accompanied by the consent letter - with the courts and pay a processing fee, though. That would be followed by interviews with your parents and other concerned parties, including you, the minor child.” At the teen’s crestfallen expression, she continued, “It’s not as bleak as it may sound. The courts usually rule in the best interests of the child, so I think you’d win the case.”

“How long would that take?” Justin snorted. “Months? Heck, I’d probably be eighteen before the courts made a determination.”

“It probably would be a lengthy process,” Melanie agreed, “and likely not worth your while.”

“Are we just supposed to sit around with our thumbs up our asses until Sunshine turns eighteen?” Debbie complained irately. “That’s simply not acceptable.”

“I did come up with a possible solution,” the bulldyke divulged. “I wouldn’t normally recommend this since it wouldn’t be legally binding and would require that both parties implicitly trust each other, but…”

“What is it?” the teenager probed, ready to accept almost any idea by this point.

“Debbie, you could set up a bank account into which you’d deposit Justin’s wages,” Melanie suggested. “When Justin turns eighteen, you’d close the account and hand the money over to him, and he could then open his own account.”

“That’s brill!” Debbie gushed, squeezing the teen’s hand tightly and wondering bemusedly, “Why the flaming heck didn’t we think of that? What do you say, Sunshine? I promise, I wouldn’t touch a penny.”

“I… I, yeah, that would work,” Justin stuttered, dazed that they’d found a workable solution. “Shit, Deb, of course I trust you - I couldn’t ask for a better surrogate mother.” Standing up, the teen enveloped first Debbie and then Melanie in a hug, whispering, “Thank you,” in the lawyer’s ear.

“My pleasure, Justin,” she murmured in return. When the vastly relieved, beaming teen sat back down, she advised, “A savings or money market account would probably be best, since you’d accrue interest, but I’ll leave that up to the two of you to decide. Does either of you have any other questions?”

“Will I still need my birth certificate to open an account?” Justin wondered. “I know the personal banker mentioned it, but I can’t remember if I’m required to show it once I’m eighteen.”

“Hmm,” the lawyer mused, “although you shouldn’t need it to open an account, it is an important document to have on hand. I _do_ strongly recommend that you obtain the original.”

“Okay,” the teen replied unenthusiastically. Shit, he’d have to contact his mom anyway, something he’d been hoping to postpone for quite some time, especially after their last stilted conversation.

“Anything else?” Mel asked with a sympathetic smile, obviously realizing Justin wasn’t keen on calling his mom.

“No, that-” the blond abruptly stopped speaking, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know if you can answer this, but will I be able to cash my paychecks from the diner, what with not having a bank account?”

“No, I don’t think you will be able to,” the attorney answered after a few moments, “although I’ll check into it and give you a definitive answer in the next couple of days.”

“Well, shit, how’s the lad supposed to deposit his paycheck then?” Debbie asked the question that was bothering Justin.

“It will probably be easiest for him to endorse the check to you,” Melanie suggested, “and then you can deposit it.”

“That okay with you, Kiddo?” Debbie inquired.

“I just want to be able to deposit it, that’s all I care about,” the teen affirmed, before sighing. “Heck, Melanie, you’re a lifesaver,” he praised.

“How about another brew, Mel?” Debbie offered. With a wink at the blond, she added, “Sunshine says it cures all ills.”

“Tea does that,” the lesbian laughingly agreed, “but if I drink any more, I’m going to end up like Tycho Brahe. Besides," she confided, "I want to get home to Lindsay. It’s the first night we’ve had to ourselves in a week.”

“Oh?” Justin’s ears pricked up in interest. Could that mean-

As that thought was forming, Melanie related, “Brian has finally moved back to the loft after the police released it to him this morning.”

Justin felt a surge of relief at that announcement. Now he could visit the girls and Gus as much as he wanted, without worrying about running into the temperamental brunet. Dealing with his ex-lover was just too stressful, particularly since the teen couldn’t guess whether the man would even speak to him on a given day.

Melanie fumed, “That man had the nerve to claim he’d need to have his designer duds fumigated when he picked them up this afternoon - like Linds and I have fleas or something.”

A snort escaped the teen, which he quickly turned into a cough to hide his amusement. He could just imagine what sort of ‘fleas’ Brian was worried about.

“Anyroad,” Melanie summed up, “the minute his backside was out the door, I ran out to purchase a bottle of champagne. We’re going to celebrate tonight!”

Accompanying her to the entryway shortly after that, the blond helped Melanie into her coat, before opening the door to find a layer of white on the ground. “Huh, I guess Vic’s tennis elbow did predict the weather correctly,” he stated in surprise. Looking at Melanie in concern, he queried, “Will you be okay to drive home?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. There’s not much traffic at this time on a Sunday night, and the snow’s not very thick yet. The traffic’s going to be chock-a-block tomorrow, though, Pittsburghers having forgotten how to drive in the snow since last winter.”

After watching to make sure Melanie got underway safely, Justin decided he’d better catch an earlier bus the next morning. The lesbian was undoubtedly right that the traffic was going to be horrible the next day, and the teen didn’t want to get in trouble for arriving late at St. James.

Once he was in bed that night, the teen found his thoughts drifting toward a certain brunet. Well, why not fantasize as he pleased? It wasn’t as if his ex-lover would ever know.

That decided, Justin slipped into a memory of wielding Brian’s favourite glass dildo, the one that was almost as long and thick as the blond’s member. He briefly regretted returning the red dildo he’d received as a ‘tip’ to ‘The Promised Land’, although it had been the only choice at the time. Maybe once he started his second job, he would purchase a toy for himself.

Recreating that scene with Brian in his mind, Justin remembered slowly prepping the brunet with well-lubed fingers, while licking his way up and down the man’s shaft. The teen could almost hear the sensuous moans and groans that had come out of the brunet’s mouth. He’d been anything but silent.

Beginning to stroke his cock more rapidly, the blond grunted a drawn-out “Fuuuck” in unison with imaginary Brian, visualizing himself inserting the tip of the dildo into the brunet’s hole.  

He could feel himself gradually swallowing the brunet down, pushing the glass phallus into his lover at the same pace. When he brushed against Brian’s prostate, a steady paen of, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” issued from the man’s mouth.

Justin’s hand began flying up and down, picturing the look of ecstasy on Brian’s face as he pulled the toy out and then pushed it back in. The delicious taste of the brunet’s precome flooded his mouth, and he screamed, “Bri!” as he exploded, not thinking at all about muffling the noise.

Who needed a dildo? he wondered muzzily as he fell into a sound sleep. His imagination worked just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome any kind of feedback (but the good one is obviously better, duh) and will love you no matter what you have to say to us. :)


	12. Chapter 12

Justin was grateful to push open the front door to St. James. It was bitterly cold outside, and the teen wanted to warm up. As planned, he’d caught an earlier bus so the first snowfall of the season wouldn’t make him late for class - a good thing since the driver had ended up having to detour down a few side streets to avoid a major accident on the main road, the journey taking almost twice the usual time. He’d been stuck at the back of the overcrowded bus, all the bodies doing little to raise the temperature and only the vents at the front of the vehicle actually dispensing warm air.

Now the blond would still have to hustle to make it to his calculus class on time, although he should be able to drop off the borrowed library books at his locker without making himself any later. He didn’t want to tote around two full sets of textbooks all morning, before he went to return them to the library during the lunch hour. Justin sniffed. Where was that sulfuric smell coming from? And what was all that noise about? he wondered. He vaguely noticed an origami sparrow flapping its wings from the front of one of the narrow freshman lockers as he rounded the corner to the hallway where his own locker was located.

He couldn’t see the cause of the pandemonium, his vision blocked by the horde of students in front of him. Given the wintry weather, he briefly wondered how so many students had made it to St. James before him. Then he remembered that many of them lived relatively close to the exclusive private school, just as he had done before his father had tossed him out. Rather than driving or being dropped off, it probably would have been almost as fast to hoof it to the school.

As Justin tried to nudge his way forward, the students drew back, most of them eyeing him avidly and murmuring to one another. When he reached the front of the throng, the teen stood frozen in horror at the sight of a blackened metal cabinet that used to be his locker, wisps of steam curling out from the gaps around the edges. The message, ‘Fags die’, was spelled out in large, blood-red lettering on the grey door.

Right then, someone behind him in the heaving mass of students shoved Justin, making him stumble toward his locker. He caught himself just in time, almost bracing himself against the smoldering metal with the palm of his right hand. A surge of relief and anger combined flooded through him at the thought of how severely he could have blistered his hand.

At that moment, a male voice shouted, “Eat shit and die, faggot!”

A female then crudely tittered, “He already eats shit.”

“Gross,” was the general consensus, along with an assenting buzz in response to, “He deserved it. Fags don’t belong here.”

“Don’t let them win,” Justin muttered to himself, again and again. His head held high, he did his best to turn and scan the other students impassively. A few of the students either glanced away or looked back at him somewhat sympathetically, but most of them showed outright contempt or simply titillation at what had occurred. Maybe the fag-hating ones would get in trouble for being late to class, or so he hoped. They were so busy gawking and gossiping that they apparently hadn’t even heard the bell chiming eight o’clock.

The blond’s hands were trembling slightly, but that was as much from anger as from fear. He didn’t see Hobbs anywhere, but the teen was sure the jock must have been behind this, probably with the help of his cronies. If the tosser believed he was going to make Justin turn tail and run, he’d better think again, Justin furiously decided.

Really, he appraised, as he jogged toward the calculus classroom, Hobbs hadn’t accomplished much. Justin hadn’t injured himself, though that had been a result of dumb luck more than anything else - he had barely avoided touching the hot metal surface. He’d lost nothing of material value - the only item in his locker had been the cheap microfiber tie he’d purchased as a substitute for his St. James necktie. He hadn’t needed it any longer after he’d retrieved the original, leaving the second-rate imitation wadded up at the bottom of the metal cabinet.

Most importantly, Justin wasn’t deterred, and he wasn’t having any difficulty thinking clearly. The teenager remained determined to face down bullies like Chris and his ilk. He should probably be shaking in his boots - and there was no guarantee he wasn’t going to do just that later on - but not while any gloating students or faculty could see him.

He decided he would report the vandalism after his calculus class. Justin reflected bitterly that Dixon would almost certainly blame him, possibly twisting the incident so that the teen ended up in detention again. No way would he chance that happening. His Latin instructor, though, was a really considerate philosopher type of guy, so Justin was fairly certain that Mr Sullivan would excuse him from class after he handed in his poem.

Not that he expected reporting the destroyed locker to do any good - the administration would doubtless turn a blind eye since, as far as Justin could tell, they wished the only openly gay student at the school would up and disappear. In the meantime, were there any measures he could take to protect himself? the blond mused. He’d have to be extra careful not to be cornered by Hobbs and his cohorts, or he could end up bashed - just like Matthew Shepard. A shudder rippled through the teen’s frame as he remembered Vic’s warning from the day before.

He’d have to get advice from someone. Although he didn’t want to worry Debbie, he knew his surrogate mother would have his hide if he didn’t tell her about this. So would Vic for that matter. As Justin pulled open the door to the maths classroom, he realized that Melanie would also be a good person to talk to. Yet again, he was grateful to have the bulldyke lawyer in his corner.

“Quick, Justin, get in there,” an out-of-breath Daphne urged from behind him.

Compliantly moving forward, the blond slid into one of the many empty seats, his friend grabbing the desk next to him, just as the bell rang for the eighth time. An irate-looking Dixon paced to and fro at the front of the class, growling about the “ungrateful little beasts he had to try and train up to handle basic math.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows at Justin, mouthing, “Basic math?” to which Justin could only shrug in response. Maybe that was how the ‘math genius’ viewed it.

The blond was grateful that the homophobic teacher wasn’t targeting him; that made a pleasant change. Any of the calculus students who were still gawping at his locker were in for an unpleasant surprise once they finally made their way to class. And any who claimed the next day that they’d been ‘snowed in’ would get short shrift too, he suspected.

As the man continued to stride back and forth, occasionally directing an indiscriminate glare at the students already in the classroom, Justin leaned over and muttered to Daphne, “Did you see it?”

“See what?” the girl whispered back.

“My locker,” the blond hissed, shaking slightly as he once more contemplated how narrowly he’d escaped harm. Fuck, if his right hand had been injured, he wouldn’t be able to draw. And drawing was almost like breathing for the young artist. He wouldn’t be able to work at the diner either, due to pain or for sanitary reasons - nixing his plan to repay Brian for his burgled possessions, for god knew how long.

“What’s up with your locker?” Daphne queried. “I was in a rush and came straight to class, didn’t stop by my locker. I missed whatever happened,” she babbled. “I’m not used to driving in snow, so my mom had to ferry me over here. The traffic was barely inching along; I should have just gotten out and walked.”

“Hobbs happened,” Justin exclaimed. Before he could elaborate, though, two more students entered the classroom, bringing those present up to a grand total of eight. Chris still wasn’t there, the teen noted, but Dixon would probably give the jock an exemption. Being a star athlete accorded Hobbs all sorts of privileges.

One of the late arrivals was the girl who’d complained of a full bladder during the midterm exam. Dixon turned his ire on the unfortunate girl, reaching over to his desk and contemptuously tossing some papers at her. “You’d better ingest less tea before the next exam,” he suggested, “then maybe you’ll be able to concentrate and solve one equation correctly.”

“But I told you I had to go,” the girl protested, looking in dismay at the giant ‘F’ written at the top of her exam - a grade which everyone in the class was now privy to. “In fact, I need to go-” she whined, before cutting herself off in the face of Dixon’s withering glare.

Justin snorted when the unfortunate student finally shut up. He didn’t have anything against the silly git; he didn’t think she’d been amongst the gawkers in front of his locker, but she didn’t have much of a sense for self-preservation. Glad to have his attention diverted from the latest bullying incident, even if only momentarily, he turned to Daphne to share his amusement.

His friend was staring fixedly at the stack of exams on the teacher’s desk, biting her lip nervously. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she muttered, her face paling as Dixon lifted the remaining tests and began leafing through them.

Geesh. Hadn’t the man had anything better to do than grade their midterms over the weekend? the blond speculated. The sadistic fucker probably wanted to ruin his students’ good mood after a long weekend, and had spent hours scrutinizing the tests for the smallest of errors. Justin wasn’t particularly worried about his own results; even if he hadn’t aced the exam, he must’ve come darned close.

“The lot of you have been wasting my valuable time,” Dixon announced, strolling around and slapping the students’ exams down on their desks.

Craning his head around, it appeared to the blond that the exams were landing face up, but he couldn’t actually discern the grades. Until Dixon got to Daphne, that is. The instructor sneered disdainfully, “You’re going to fail your SAT if that’s the best you can do, Chanders.”

Justin winced at the giant ‘D-’ scrawled across the top of Daphne’s test. Yikes, that was barely a passing grade. The blond’s attention was jerked back to the teacher, when Dixon dropped his test onto the desk, jeering, “Don’t give up your night job, Taylor.”

What was that supposed to mean? the teen wondered. Did the homophobic prick think he was a rent boy by night? And had he somehow bollocksed the test after being certain he’d done so well? Justin carefully lifted a corner of the exam, but when he didn’t see a grade or any other red marks, he turned it over, flipping through the pages until he finally discovered a bit of red ink next to one of his solutions.

The bastard! Justin fumed to himself. Dixon had deliberately misread a ‘1’ as a ‘7’, claiming that meant he hadn’t correctly solved the problem and docking four points in the left margin. As the blond skimmed through the rest of the exam, however, he couldn’t find any other corrections. Where was his score? Finally, on the last page, he discovered ‘96’ in small print beneath the last problem. No grade, no notation that he’d done well. The grade had to be an ‘A’, though; ninety-six out of one hundred couldn’t possibly equate to a lesser grade.

Holy shit! He actually would have aced the exam if Dixon hadn’t intentionally scored him down. Right then, he felt something jabbing him in the shoulder. Looking to his left, he saw Daphne getting ready to poke him again. She raised her eyebrows and pointed at his test inquiringly.

“I suggest you pay attention, Ms Chanders,” an icy voice reproved, “unless you’re aiming for an ‘F’ on your next test.”

Daphne sank back into the seat of her chair resignedly. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled, not meeting the strict teacher’s eye.

“And then there is Mr Hudson,” Dixon continued, “whose greatest achievement this year has been a ‘D’ he had earned in our revision test in September. Now, unsurprisingly, today he hasn’t managed any better. It’s a ‘D-’,” he finished his demeaning speech, slapping a paper full of red markings in front of the unfortunate student. The lad looked like he was going to start scriking any minute.

More than twenty minutes into the class session, three more students straggled in, and the despotic instructor shoved their exams at them, ranting, “This will count as an absence for you.” With a look of malicious satisfaction on his face, he added, “Don’t forget St. James’ policy on unexcused absences. You’ll be docked half a grade at the end of the semester if you have more than three of them. More than five and you lose a full grade.”

One of the newcomers blanched - his freckles standing out vividly against his pale skin - probably both at that reminder and at a poor result on the test, before slinking to the back of the room and collapsing at one of the desks. Another late arrival, one of the cheerleaders, immediately began protesting, “I had good reason to be la-”

“Then where’s your slip from the principal’s office?” Dixon mocked disbelievingly.

Justin couldn’t help feeling gratified when the girl, who’d been among those surrounding his scorched locker, shut her gob and sat down with a mulish expression on her face. It couldn’t happen to a nicer person than the girl Hobbs was currently dating, he deliberated.

The tyrant of a teacher continued to degrade students for their academic failures and ridiculed their choices in solving the difficult math problems for the next ten minutes. He finished his tirade by addressing the whole class, “After this truly pitiful performance, I have decided to do you a favour.” He paused dramatically. “I will give you the opportunity to make up for your dreadful results in another test we will be writing this Friday.”

The students began complaining but Dixon quickly hushed them again. “I hope you recognise how generous this is of me,” he exclaimed, his voice hard. “So you better improve significantly to repay my kindness.”

Daphne looked like she was losing her will to live, while Justin was a little stunned. How was he supposed to improve significantly if he had lost only four points in the whole test? He’d have to get a full hundred percent on Friday, which was going to be difficult with Dixon apparently determined to screw him over. He’d just have to be careful and write especially legibly, he decided resolutely.

 

Twenty minutes later, the lesson was finally over and the desperate students filed out of the room. They all looked like prisoners who had been granted freedom after having sat on death row their whole lives. Daphne groaned loudly as she leaned against the wall outside of the classroom.

“I’m going to top myself,” she declared. “I’m going to go find a railtrack, lie down and wait for the train to come.”

Justin rolled his eyes at his theatrical friend. “I thought I was the drama queen in this relationship,” he noted.

The girl shot him an evil look. “Leave me alone, Jus. You have any idea how my mum’s going to kick off once she finds out I got a ‘D-’? She’s gonna make me wish I had found that train.”

Knowing Mrs Chanders, Justin realised that might actually be true. He was still determined to cheer his friend up though. “I’m sure you weren’t the only one to tank that test,” he tried to assure her.

“Says the one who got an ‘A’,” she snarked back.

“How’s that?” the blond queried, confused since he hadn’t seen his bestie peeking at his test.

Daphne snorted, “Please, I could see the lack of red on your test from where I was sitting. There wasn’t a single mark on the whole paper.”

Justin shrugged. “Actually, there were a couple,” he informed her. “And I didn’t get an ‘A’. Dixon didn’t bother with writing my grade on the test, so I might just as well have got a ‘D’.”

Daphne scoffed, jabbing her elbow into his side. “Right, as if he’d dare to do that when you’ve only lost a couple points.” She then turned two curious eyes to him. “What did you get wrong, by the way? It was number thirteen, wasn’t it? It’s always number thirteen.”

The blond bit his lip. “Uh, I haven’t messed up at all actually - Dixon just decided that my ‘1’ was a ‘7’.”

Daphne groaned again. “Of course,” she deadpanned, before closing her eyes. “I swear I’m gonna top myself,” she repeated.

Justin just shook his head at her. Sometimes he seriously wondered which one of them was a gay queen. His contemplation was interrupted by an excited chatter coming from a group of freshly-released prisoners to their left.

“He got a ‘B-’!” someone was saying, awe clear in their voice.

Jessica, a ginger girl from their class, joined in. “That must be the best grade yet,” she commented. “So far everyone I’ve spoken to had got a ‘C’ at best.”

“Dixon is a nightmare,” someone else added. “He scored down my test on purpose just because I apparently ‘divided by zero’. I mean, there weren’t even any numbers - it was all _abc_ and _x_.”

“He gave me an ‘F’,” a girl wailed. “How could he do that? Chris promised me he’d fi-.” When she realised Justin and Daphne were staring at her, the pom-pom girl abruptly stopped talking and scurried away with the friend to whom she’d been bemoaning her fate.

“Serves her right,” Daphne opined, smirking nastily.

“Chris probably will _fix_ it, though,” Justin offered with a resigned shrug of one shoulder. “On the revision, at the very least.”

“Dixon does play favourites,” his friend agreed with a massive sigh. “If only I were one of them.”

The murmuring of the other students continued as Justin decided to drag his best friend away, leaving the topic of maths behind. He certainly didn’t want to get sucked into a debate about variables and how you might sometimes inadvertently end up dividing by zero if you weren’t careful, or about how some students got unfairly graded up, while others got graded down. He grabbed Daphne by the arm and slowly herded her down the hallway, trying to be sympathetic to her suicidal jabbering.

He waved Daphne off to her psychology class and then continued on his way to Latin. He was about to turn in his poem and was excited to find out what Mr Sullivan thought about it. Justin figured his creation was a little cheese, but his Latin teacher had a knack for finding hidden meanings in everything, and Justin was looking forward to what the old philosopher would come up with concerning his ‘ode to Brian’.

 

Meanwhile, the object of Justin’s affections was busy at work. Brian had already finished the preparation for his afternoon pitch of a billboard advert for an up-and-coming investigative journalism magazine. His design carried a basic message of ‘Your monthly dose of reality’, which wasn’t particularly inventive but was simple and to the point - which was exactly what Brian wanted and, most importantly, it was what the client needed. Now, the brunet was taking a break from perusing his unfinished accounts - the dreaded Kofola and Iams dog food ads amongst them - and decided to take a crack at the planning of Michael’s birthday knees-up.

Five minutes later, he found himself regretting his decision. He had no opinions on the decorations, the food, or even the games and activities that were supposed to entertain them, and the whole thing just felt like a chore. Why couldn’t they just sprawl across a couch and neck a few bottles of whiskey? Or go to Babylon, cop off with a few fit blokes, and then get completely slaughtered? Or even better, not celebrate turning such a horrid age at all?

Brian rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He just had to suck it up and throw Michael the best thirtieth birthday celebration his best friend could ever ask for - within reason, of course. He would leave the decorating to Emmett, even though it sounded a little dangerous to let the flamboyant queen loose, Brian thought. As for the food, he would probably just rely on people to bring whatever they wanted - Jacob’s joint had been invented for a reason, after all. When it came to entertainment, the brunet thought he should probably at least make an effort though. He tried to remember what sort of games the gang had played during Michael’s last year party, but except for a dirty round of Scrabble and a game of Mafia that Emmett had screwed up by almost bursting into tears at finding out he was supposed to play the role of the bad guy, Brian was at a loss.

Scrabble was a good enough game, he supposed, but there were too many memories of quiet evenings spent with the blond brat attached to it, so the ad executive immediately crossed it off the list. Mafia was also out, because - as proven by Honeycutt - it wasn’t something people could easily play under the influence. Then, after quickly discarding college drinking games such as Never Have I Ever and Spin the Bottle, Brian decided he had definitely screwed himself over by attempting to organise the do. What the hell had he been thinking?

“Cynthia!” he called out, hoping his faithful secretary won’t leave him in the lurch.

The blonde entered his office calmly. “You screamed?”

Brian huffed. “I need you to do me a good turn, Cyn,” he told her, “What entertainment would you suggest for someone’s thirtieth birthday party?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this for you?”

“Hell no!” he denied in outrage. “I have a ways to go, thank you very much. It’s for Michael.”

His personal assistant shrugged. “He’s a man,” she said, “hire him a stripper.”

Brian could’ve kicked himself. How in the world had he not come up with that? “A stripper,” he repeated in disbelief, “that’s perfect.”

Cynthia grinned at him. “Glad I could be of help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” she told him before turning around on her heel and leaving Brian’s office. The brunet shook his head at himself. No one must ever find out that he hadn’t thought of it himself, instead considering Scrabble as a possible source of entertainment. Figuring that a few board games wouldn’t hurt if the evening was to be spiced up by a naked hunk, Brian even decided to take pity on Scrabble. He _was_ pretty good at it after all.

His problem solved, the brunet stud glanced at his watch. It was just past noon and therefore time for his lunch break. Picking up his briefcase, he slipped on his suit jacket and left his office.

“I’ll be back in thirty,” he informed his blonde assistant, who was sorting through a pile of some official-looking papers at her desk.

“Right,” she acknowledged, before motioning to the paperwork. “I’ll have these ready by then. Do you want me to-” she cut herself off at the sound of her phone ringing.

Brian watched as she picked it up, a carefully cultivated smile on her face, and spoke, “Ryder Advertising, Brian Kinney’s office. This is Cynthia Moore speaking.”

The brunet couldn’t hear what the person on the other side of the line said, but when Cynthia shooed him off with a wave of her hand, he decided that he didn’t really care. She would pass him a message if it were important.

 

Justin clutched the handset tightly to his ear. The school payphone he had decided to use to call Brian’s secretary was probably as old as Alexander Graham Bell himself, and Cynthia’s voice was really hard to hear amongst all the white noise.

“Yes,” he was saying, “this is Justin Taylor. Brian’s… uh, friend?”

“Of course, Justin,” chirped the woman. “I remember you. Did you want to speak to Brian?”

The teenager’s eyes widened. “No!” he refused. “Actually, I thought he’d be out of the office. I wanted to speak to you.”

Cynthia hmmed. “Well, here I am. What do you need?”

Justin took a deep breath. “I, uh… I don’t even know why you’d tell me this but…” Justin trailed off. Jesus, he needed to get himself together. Clearing his throat, he tried again, “I was wondering if you had any information you could share about the stuff that got stolen from Brian’s flat. I mean, I know you don’t really know me but you were really nice to me right after the robbery and, well, I thought you could help me.”

The secretary was quiet for a moment and Justin was just starting to think that she had hung up on him in face of his ramblings, when she spoke, “What would you want to know?”

The blond went on to explain himself, “I want to repay Brian for what he lost, but I don’t know the exact sum. I mean, I know I probably won’t be able to raise it all - he had some really expensive furniture and I only have a diner salary and maybe some other source of income, but I want to try.”

The secretary went quiet again, but not for as long as the first time. “That’s commendable, Justin,” she praised him. “I’m going to have a look if I can find the sum for you, ok?”

Justin sighed in relief. “Thank you. I really appreciate it - I know you probably shouldn’t be doing this.”

The woman chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t give this information to just anyone, that’s for sure,” she said. “But I know you - or should I say, I know _of_ you and hell if I don’t think you’re the best thing to happen to Brian in a long time.”

Grinning, the teenager felt immediately a lot better about the whole phone call. “I think so too,” he joked, “but Brian refuses to believe me for some reason.”

“He can be pretty thick-headed,” Cynthia chipped in, “but we love him nonetheless. Now, I’m going to find a copy of that affidavit.”

Justin waited for the secretary to come back to the phone, intently watching the payphone display for how much credit he had left for the call. He threw in another fifty cents and a few seconds later, Cynthia was back.

“All right, I found it” she informed him. “I have to say, though, it’s certainly a lot of money.”

The blond grunted. “Yeah, I suspected as much.”

“According to the incident report, Brian provided documentation for $17,793.72 worth of stuff,” she reported.

Justin let out a nervous laugh, writing the sum quickly on the palm of his hand. “Great, I’ll still be paying that off when I’m sixty,” he commented drily. “I might have to do some research into how to rob a bank.”

Cynthia laughed. “I hope not, you can’t get back together with Mr High-and-Mighty if you’re in the nick.” She paused. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate whatever you are capable of giving him though. It’s the thought that counts.”

The high schooler wasn’t so optimistic. “We’ll see,” he muttered. “He might just as well send me to hell. He still thinks I forgot to lock the door and set the alarm.”

“Did you?” she asked, no judgment colouring her voice.

“No,” he immediately replied. “I mean, I can’t be a hundred percent sure with everything that’s happened, but I could swear I did both.”

The secretary hmmed. “In that case, I’m sure Brian will realise it soon enough and then he’ll stop punishing you for something that’s not your fault.”

“I hope so,” Justin retorted. Then he got deafened by a shrill automatic voice informing him that his credit was running out and that if he wanted to continue his conversation, he’d have to feed the machine more money. “I, uh… I have to go, Miss Moore,” he told Cynthia. “Thank you for your help.”

“Pleasure, Justin,” she chirped. “Pure pleasure.”

The blond student then hung up the ancient handphone, pulled a notebook out of his backpack, and jotted down the enormous sum of money he had to raise - copying it from his hand, where the ink was already smudging on his sweaty palm. It was ridiculous - of course, there was no way he could possibly put together that much money - but Justin was determined to try his best.

He shouldered both his backpack and the tote bag with the books he had borrowed from Frau Rose, the second of which was getting heavier by the minute, and set course for the library. He had been dragging the damned tomes around the whole morning, because he couldn’t leave them in the torched locker, and it was time to return them.

Two minutes later, Justin knocked on the jamb of the open library door, alerting the librarian, who was sorting through a pile of pamphlets, to his presence. Because it was lunch hour, the place was basically empty, and Justin congratulated himself on his foresight to go and return his borrowed textbooks to Frau Rose now, instead of joining the crowds of hungry students in the cafeteria. He’d force himself to chow down the school cook’s rubbery pork with muddy mashed potatoes later. Daphne had chosen to skip lunch altogether in favour of sneaking into the school swimming pool area to spy on her crush’s swim practice, and it wasn’t like the torture meat could get any worse if he let it sit for a bit.

His favourite teacher looked up from her work and smiled as she noticed who had disturbed her. “Ah, Mr Taylor,” she greeted him, “come to borrow more books?”

The blond shook his head, giving the woman his best smile in return. “On the contrary, Frau, I came to return some. I made a friend in the police force and finally got my rucksack back,” he explained cheekily.

“Is that so?” the woman queried, her voice carrying amusement. “Aren’t you resourceful.”

Justin pulled the stack of borrowed books out of the Cicero tote bag the librarian had given him a week ago. “They’re all there,” he assured her, handing the heavy tomes over. “Did you want the bag too?” he asked belatedly, realising he had just assumed he got to keep it.

The English teacher waved him off. “Of course not, Justin. You’re probably the only one to appreciate it anyway,” she joked. “Speaking of, have you found out if any of the faculty need help with their literacy?”

“Undoubtedly,” quipped Justin, ”but you shouldn’t bother yourself with that. _Aquila non capit muscas_.”

His comment startled a laugh out of the woman. “Mr Taylor!” she chided. “Surely you’re not implying the other teachers are flies?”

The teenager gasped in pretend horror. “I would never! I must’ve misunderstood that quote or something.”

Frau Rose shook her head fondly. “Of course, that must be it.” Looking at her wristwatch, she raised her eyebrows at him. “Have you already eaten?”

Justin couldn’t hide his look of disgust quickly enough.

“Oh, I see,” she noted. “You’re not too keen on the pork, are you?”

“Pork? Yes,” Justin muttered. “That rubber lump of torture they call meat? No.”

He left the library to the sound of Frau Rose’s tinkling laugh resonating in the hallway. Smiling to himself, Justin decided that he might actually manage the pork after all.

 

He hadn’t managed the pork. Justin had really tried, but after he’d had to spit out a third mouthful of gristle, he’d given up. He had returned the plate looking almost untouched, earning himself an ugly look from the cook. Justin had just shrugged it off; if they served meals like that at the diner, Debbie would go out of business.

Now, Justin was slowly making his way to his next lesson, which was a physics midterm exam. He wasn’t particularly bothered, since he felt well prepared, but he was still experiencing the normal level of anxiousness he did before every test. He figured some stress was healthy, though; he wouldn’t want to rest on his laurels and then screw the test up. It was supposed to be on Einstein’s theory of relativity, which sounded scary but wasn’t actually all that terrible. Once he’d understood the basic principle of it, everything else had just clicked and he’d experienced no trouble since then. Unlike Daphne who, while usually on top of her class, seemed a little out of her depth in both calculus _and_ physics this semester. Justin felt really bad for his best friend, but she had been steadfastly declining his offers of studying together - though that was probably more because she was busy moaning after Glenn than because she didn’t want to study with Justin.

The school bell rang just as he sat down at a desk in the middle of the room, and the blond used the bit of time he had before Mr Horner found his way into the classroom to observe his classmates. The majority of them looked nervous; there were a couple that seemed confident; and four individuals at the back of the room just looked resigned. Justin rolled his eyes at them secretly and immediately felt like a right prat for judging his peers. He knew he sometimes had the tendency to look down on people he considered to be of a lower intelligence than himself, but he was trying to fight the instinct. He didn’t _actually_ think he was better than others, though it might come across that way from time to time. Perhaps it was a side effect of his country club upbringing? If he ever found himself in conversation with a therapist, he might ask them about it.

He was startled slightly out of his musings as his best friend burst into the classroom, looking around with panicky eyes and calming again only when she realised the teacher wasn’t there yet. Justin gave Daphne a small wave and a supportive smile, but the girl just rolled her eyes and joined the resigned students at the back. Uh oh, thought Justin, she was not going to be too happy once the lesson was finished; by the looks of it, she’d have to be extremely jammy in order to pass satisfactorily.

His inner monologue was interrupted by their physics teacher finally entering the classroom. “Sit down,” he told the already-seated students, striding up to his desk. “For those who don’t know it yet, today we’re writing our midterm exam.” He ignored the agitated murmur coming from the class and continued, “Look at the bright side, in forty-five minutes, you’ll have it off your backs.”

Justin watched as Horner gave the stack of tests to a girl in the first row to pass along and impatiently waited for his copy. The students in front of him were incredibly slow at handing over the papers, causing the blond’s leg to twitch nervously. Come on, he thought, give it here!

Once he’d received his test, Justin immediately wrote a few of the basic equations at the top of the paper. He didn’t want to chance forgetting them later on when he most needed them. Reading over the questions, he judged them to be all of a similar difficulty and decided therefore to work his way through them in the order they were written. No need to complicate matters, when there was no real reason to.

As promised, forty-five minutes later the test was over and Justin was pleased with himself. He wasn’t aware of any mistakes he might have made, actually feeling _relatively_ positive he had nailed everything - even the additional theory question Mr Horner had made up on the spot, because he had caught some of the students in the last row chattering.

“So?” asked Daphne when she met up with him outside of the classroom. “How did it go for you?”

Justin shrugged. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” he recited.

His best friend glared at him. “You need to have your head tested, mate. No one should feel that confident after just finishing an exam on the theory of relativity. I know I don’t.”

“It’s not as hard as it sounds,” he insisted.

Daphne questioned in outrage, “Are you trying to wind me up? I’d take last year’s chemistry course over physics any day.” She paused, her eyes flitting to the ceiling briefly, before she groaned loudly. “Sod it! And now Dixon wants to give us another test on Friday, the slave driver. I’m so not ready for that, let me tell you.”

Justin grinned at her. “Maybe we could get together sometime and study? I could use a bit of revision myself.”

His girlfriend nodded vehemently, gripping the blond’s arm tightly. “That would be beltin’, Justin! How does Wednesday grab you?”

A little startled by her surprising agreement, Justin stumbled. “Uh, sure?” he agreed. “Meet me at the diner after my shift? I finish at eight.”

Daphne furrowed her eyebrows. “You do? Why did I think it was later than that?”

“Because it has been,” Justin told her. “The bloody detention last week threw my schedule out of whack, pushing my shift back by an hour. I’m so chuffed I don’t have to suffer through that anymore.”

His curly-haired friend patted him on the shoulder in fake sympathy. “You poor boy,” she cooed, “did it hurt a lot?”

“Oh, do one,” he told her. “It really was a torture! I told you about the dumb essay Bauer had us writing.”

Daphne tittered, clearly cheered up from her physics-induced funk. “I’m sorry, Jus,” she apologised as sincerely as she could, while still laughing. “Now get going or you’ll be late for your next lesson,” she prompted him, turning on her heel and striding in the direction of her German classroom.

Justin pouted. How did Daphne always manage to turn every situation in her favour? Just a second ago, she had been down in the dumps because of Einstein, and Justin had been bragging. Now, she was laughing and he was the one left gaping after her. That just wasn’t fair.

“And don’t pout,” she called over her shoulder, not even looking at him. “You’ll trip over that bottom lip!”

Darn it, thought Justin as he watched his best friend turn a corner at the end of the hallway. Still, he kept pouting the whole way to his IT class.

 

He arrived at the diner at five minutes to four, rushing through the door, and almost barrelled into Detective Horvath, who was just leaving the eatery. “Oops,” he grinned as he avoided the collision, “I’m sorry, detective. You’re here to see me?”

The copper gave him a distracted smile. “Hello, Mr Taylor,” he greeted him. “And no, I was just here to get something quick to eat, and now I must be on my way. My partner’s waiting for me,” he explained, motioning towards a nondescript police car parked on the other side of the street.

“I see,” replied Justin, not seeing at all. Why would the policeman go out of his way to eat at the Liberty Diner, when he wasn’t even there to talk to him? There were bound to be a lot of establishments closer to the police station where he could get a good butty, and most of them didn’t cater to the gay population.

Justin bid the man goodbye, before fully entering the diner. So what did the Liberty Diner have that the others lacked? he mused.

“Hey up, Sunshine!” Debbie called out cheerfully, curly hair wild and cheeks pink. “Glad to see you didn’t earn yourself another detention.”

The blond grinned at her, thoughts of Horvath fleeing his mind. “I know, right? Calculus was a pain again - Dixon scored my test down on purpose, but I managed to keep my cool and not earn myself another week of torture. Physics went well, though; I think I aced it,” he boasted. He had decided not to bother Debbie with the locker incident until they were both home that evening - no need to ruin her mood when she seemed to be in such a good disposition.

The redhead smiled at him proudly as she ran a hand through his hair. “That’s wonderful, love,” she praised him, “I knew you’d do well.”

Justin fought a blush. “Thanks, Debs,” he replied. Noticing a group of people entering the diner, he then told her, “I’ll go change and then I’ll join you out here, ok?”

“No rush,” she called after him, heading to serve the new arrivals.

Fortunately, now that he again had his duffel bag, the teen had enough clothes to leave a pair of cargos and a tee in his cubby at the diner, and he no longer had to stop at Deb’s house on the way from school. Despite the matronly waitress’ words, the bond therefore made sure to change quickly and leave the staff room as soon as possible. He didn’t want to leave Debbie out there alone. He hadn’t seen either Kiki or Harry bussing, and a horrible thought entered his mind, that while he had been in detention, Debbie had been working the hour from four to five alone the whole week. He hoped it wasn’t so, but suspected he was right and the Italian had been picking up his slack. No wonder she had fallen ill.

Speaking of ill, as soon as Justin made his way back out, he asked Debbie, “How are you feeling, by the way? I wasn’t sure you’d be working today.”

The woman threw out her arms in a broad gesture. “What do you think? I feel great.”

“Are you sure?” he asked in concern. “You seemed a bit flushed when I arrived.”

The redhead just waved him off, though. “Oh, that was nothing,” she said, “I was just a little flustered. Now, go and start a new pot of coffee, Sunshine; we’re about to run out.”

Justin let the subject drop but decided to keep an eye on his surrogate mother, just in case. Picking up the nearly-full coffee pot, he narrowed his eyes at it. Yes, he’d definitely keep an eye on her; Debbie was clearly not as well as she said she was.

 

After leaving Ryder late that afternoon, Brian was in desperate need of some relaxation. He’d had another run in with the thick heads from the art department after lunch, and he had been wound up ever since.

Stopping at the loft for a quick shower and a change of clothes, the brunet stud then made his way to the baths. He hadn’t been to the dinky establishment in over a week, so he figured he was due for a visit.

He entered through the inconspicuous doorway on the side of the building, finding himself in a dimly-lit entrance hall of the old bathhouse. After having undressed in the baths’ surprisingly large dressing room and donning a towel, Brian weaved his way through the narrow hallways and ended up in the very centre of the building - a spacious, steamed-up sauna room. Naked men were leisurely sprawled across wooden benches, skimpy towels draped across their crotches. It was here that men paired up - or grouped up; Brian didn’t discriminate - to go and enjoy themselves in the other rooms. Sizing up both his competition - hunky rivals that were plainly tops - and his prey, the brunet licked his lips. It looked like a good night.

Nodding at a tall, muscular brunet who had given him a come-hither look, Brian headed towards the darkened back rooms. Soon, whimpers and moans of ecstasy reached his ears, and the ad exec and his conquest hurried to join in.

He slipped into doorway number three, the room which from Brian’s experience had the most comfortable benches, dragging the trick behind himself. There, in the dim lighting, he noticed a couple of guys kneeling and performing blowjobs in tandem for two men sitting shoulder-to shoulder on a bench along one side of the room. Brian guided his trick to the opposite wall, where he reclined on another seat, pushing his accomplice to his knees as he lowered his pants and closed his eyes. When he opened them back up, a man was leaning against the door jamb, his back to Brian as he fondled his cock through the white cloth, while staring at the foursome. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but Brian couldn’t discern his face. Besides, the tongue laving his cock felt fantastic, so he didn’t pay the newcomer any more attention. His eyes slid shut once more, the stud basking in the brunet trick’s adulation of his prick.

That only lasted for a couple minutes, though, his eyelids slitting open so he could check on the progress of the other two earnest cocksuckers - the slurping noises and accompanying groans making his own release increasingly imminent. Unfortunately, instead of encountering a steaming hot scene, his eyes focused on the voyeur, with whom he immediately locked gazes. And fuck if it wasn’t David fucking Cameron.

The other man had clearly recognised him too, as he was watching Brian with a panicky look in his eyes. The stud of Liberty Avenue sighed in resignation - he was never going to come now with Mikey’s ex-boyfriend up in his face like this.  

“Game’s over,” he dismissed his trick, flipping his towel back over his lap. Shit, he hated wasting such a nice boner.

“Huh?” the man glanced up at him in astonishment when the white terrycloth flicked him on the nose, before falling on his arse and scooting backward as Brian stood.

Naturally, it was right then that the two dudes sitting opposite him let out loud groans of repletion, spurting down their tricks’ throats. A few seconds later, the boy toys erupted onto the side of the bench, coming in unison. Clearly, none of them had been put off by the fucking chiropractor, the adman thought sourly. For all that the doc had been treated to a view of his magnificent physique, Brian noted, it didn’t appear that the older man had gotten any satisfaction either. That was something, at least.

“I’m off,” Brian grunted, heading to the door and purposely bumping into the doc on his way out. With a sharp nod, he indicated David should follow him, pleased when the man obeyed.

“So, what’s up, doc? Other than your dick, I mean?” Brian quipped sarcastically when they reached the dressing room.

The doctor shrugged with feigned indifference before commenting, “Have to get some action somewhere, what with Michael suddenly calling off our relationship.” A pained look entered David’s eyes before he averted his gaze, scuffing at the floor with one bare foot.

The advertising exec was startled by the doc’s uncertain behavior; previously, the man had always seemed cocksure and rather full of himself. Brian adamantly ignored the voice which said the same description might be applied to him. This random meeting at the baths might turn out to be quite fortuitous, he mused; at the very least, it would save him an awkward visit to the chiropractor’s office to judge his current level of interest in Mikey.

Regardless, he could hardly blame the man for wanting a little relief, not when the brunet stud had been seeking the same thing. Proceed carefully, he advised himself; otherwise he’d be stuck with Michael crying on his shoulder for the next millennium.

“Have you tried talking with Michael?” he inquired nonchalantly.

“What haven’t I tried?” the despondent doctor replied, slumping onto a bench in the changing room. “I’ve called him at home and at work; I’ve sent emails; I’ve banged on his apartment door only to have that nutty queen repeatedly tell me Michael’s not there - even when I could see him sitting on their couch; I even drove out to the Big Q, just to have him tell me he was too busy to talk. That was at ten o’clock at night, when there was hardly anyone in the store,” David concluded indignantly.

Huh. Who would have guessed that someone - even a dude as old and likely hard up as the doc - would have it so bad for Michael? To his shock, the brunet found himself sympathizing with the woeful man. He really was head over heels for Mikey, so the brunet would have to lend his matchmaking skills toward getting the two men back together. It shouldn’t be all that difficult really, since both men were apparently moping around like there were no other fags in Pittsburgh - Dr David wanting to wet his dick at the baths not counting in Brian’s estimation.

After pulling on his blue Emporio Armani boxer briefs and t-shirt, Brian straddled the bench next to the chiropractor, the man turning to face him and lifting his eyebrows quizzically. For the first time, the brunet observed that David’s torso rippled with muscle, not an ounce of fat to be seen. That made Brian suck in his own gut, worried that those five ounces he’d boasted to the bulldyke about losing might spontaneously glom back onto him. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, he was supposed to be giving ‘relationship’ tips to the good doctor, not getting distracted by nonexistent belly flab.

“I might be able to engineer a meeting with Michael for you,” he suggested, “but first I need to be sure you won’t bollocks it up.” Brian observed David carefully to see if the doc was going to get all offended and walk off in a huff at his direct approach to the situation.

David did momentarily look indignant, but then he deflated, wearily admitting, “I’ll try anything. I still don’t understand why asking Michael to move in with me sent him running in the other direction.”

Hmm, maybe the man was truly ignorant, Brian mused. “Look, doc, how much do you really know about Michael?”

“Lots,” David promptly responded, without elaborating.

“Such as?” Brian quirked an eyebrow at the doctor’s uninformative reply.

David looked at rather a loss, before drawling, “Well, he likes comics.”

The ad man barely refrained from sputtering a loud ‘duh’. You only had to know Mikey for five minutes to learn that. “So, if Michael agreed to move in with you, you’d be prepared to have him display his comic memorabilia in your living room?” he hazarded.

Shifting uncomfortably, the chiro stammered, “You think that would matter?” At Brian’s adamant headshake, David continued, “Then, yes. We’d figure it out together.”

Brian was genuinely impressed by the doctor’s willingness to accommodate Michael’s shit in his house. Feeling as if he were sucking on a lemon, Brian shuddered. The poor bastard must really be ‘in love’.

Returning to the topic of his best friend’s likes and dislikes, he inquired, “What’s Michael’s favourite food?”

“Seafood. He likes seafood,” David immediately answered.

Christ. Was he back at the diner listening to Mikey debate the merits of tuna salad? Brian glanced around to reassure himself that wasn’t the case before addressing the clueless doc again. “Let me guess. You eat a lot of seafood.”

David readily agreed, “At least three times a week.”

“If you two get back together, you might want to let him order first on occasion,” the adman recommended drolly. Thank fuck, he thought as he imagined a light bulb popping into existence over the doctor’s head. The bloke really was simply clueless, nothing more dire. Dr Dave had finally realised that Michael was easily influenced - that he should give him space to think for himself and encourage him to do so.

David gazed directly at the adman. “Thanks for the tip, Brian,” he stated gratefully. “If I can just get Michael to give me another chance, I’ll do that.”

“Did you know it’s Michael’s birthday this Thursday?” the brunet questioned. At David’s dumbfounded shrug, the suave ad exec expanded, “It’s a big one, Mikey’s thirtieth, so I’m putting together a big shindig. You want to help?”

When Dr Dave eagerly acquiesced, Brian suggested that they adjourn to a neighboring bar. There, as they sipped on pints, they agreed that David would coordinate many of the niggling details with Emmett. While Brian was giving himself a congratulatory pat on the back for offloading the onerous party planning, the chiropractor diffidently inquired, “Do you think Michael would like a Rolex?”

“Do they make a Captain Astro Rolex?” Brian jested. After chuckling at David’s horrified face, the adman proposed, “Hire a Captain Astro stand-in instead.”

“Who?” the doctor asked uncomprehendingly.

“Mikey’s favourite superhero,” Brian patiently explained. “Hell, _you’ll_ be Michael’s hero if you bring Captain Astro to the party.”

By that point, Dr Dave was practically bouncing up and down in his seat like an overexcited three-year-old. He didn’t raise any objections whatsoever when the brunet informed him that he’d purchase two tickets to the upcoming New York Comic Con for Michael and David.

A campaign well planned, the advertising executive congratulated himself as he drove toward Babylon in search of another trick. It was well worth having lost out on what had promised to be an adequate blowjob at the baths.

 

After dinner that evening, which had been an extremely well-seasoned gazpacho - courtesy of Vic - Justin knew it was time to face the music. He waited for both siblings to sit down on the living room couch, standing nervously in front of them.

“What’s up?” asked Vic. “You look like you’re about to face the firing squad.”

Justin gulped, feeling like he was about to vom. “Uh,” he began ineloquently, “promise not to kick off?”

Debbie eyed him suspiciously. “I’m not promising anything until I know what’s going on,” she exclaimed.

“Calm down, Sis,” Vic tried to soothe her. “The poor lad is nervous enough as it is. Now out with it, Sunshine, what have you done?”

The blond paled. “Nothing!” he quickly assured the concerned duo. He should’ve planned what to say beforehand, he thought; it wasn’t going well. “I haven’t done anything,” he said more calmly, “but something has happened.”

“What is it?” the redhead questioned, sounding serious.

“When I arrived at school this morning, I found my locker on fire,” he related. “Someone torched it.”

Debbie’s face went through an interestingly large number of micro expressions in a matter of seconds. “You what?” she whispered, uncharacteristically quiet.

Justin bit his lip. “Um, my locker got torched?” he repeated uncertainly.

Everything was quiet for a beat and then, to the blond’s surprise, it was Vic who blew up first. “The neck of them!” the incensed Italian yelled. “Strung up by their balls and left hanging in the wind is what they need! Just wait till I get my hands on them.”

“Calm down, Vic,” a shocked Justin begged the man. “It was something and nothing, really.”

“Something and nothing,” the older man repeated in disbelief. “Justin, setting fire to someone’s possessions is a serious offence! The fucking brats should get banged up for this. You could’ve got hurt.”

The blond nervously rubbed at the palm of his hand, which had barely escaped injury. “I didn’t,” he muttered.

Vic opened his mouth, presumably to continue his tirade, when he got interrupted by Debbie’s hand tightly gripping his arm. “What are we going to do?” the redhead asked him, voice plaintive. “Something has to be done, Vic, this could get really ugly.”

The teenager was a bit taken aback by how seriously his surrogate parents were taking this, truth be told. He had expected them to be concerned and outraged on his behalf, sure, but he hadn’t imagined this level of indignation. Vic looked like he was ready to go to war, while Debbie seemed to be genuinely scared for him. “I’m fine, guys, honestly,” Justin tried to assure them.

The concerned duo wasn’t listening to him though. “I don’t like this,” Debbie was saying, still clutching at Vic’s arm. “Do you think maybe we should report this?”

Her brother seemed to consider it seriously for a moment but then shook his head. “Have you ever seen a cop doing anything to help a gay teenager?” he asked her sarcastically.

Justin felt like he should object on behalf of his newfound acquaintance with Detective Horvath but decided to leave it - this was neither the place nor the time.

“We’ll have to deal with it ourselves,” Vic continued. “Maybe if we speak to the headmaster or the board-”

“No!” the blond student interrupted urgently. “That would only make it worse. I’ll sort it myself,” he promised.

Debbie gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know you want to do everything by yourself, Sunshine, but sometimes you need to accept help.”

Justin shook his head. “It’s not about that, but you meddling isn’t going to help me,” he explained. “Hobbs will just call me a tattletale and then continue on making my life hell. It’s better if I deal with it myself.”

Debbie stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Jesus, it’s like going back in time,” she whispered.

The teenager gave her a confused look. “You what?”

The matron gave him a watery smile. “Brian used to say the same thing when he was a teenager,” she explained. “Whenever he ran into trouble at school or with his parents, he always wanted to deal with it himself.”

Justin was speechless. And to think he’d always thought Brian and he couldn’t be any more different. This certainly made a dent in his theory that he and Brian worked because opposites attract.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aquila non capit muscas.” = An eagle does not catch flies. (An important person does not deal with insignificant matters.)


	13. Chapter 13

Justin had once again caught an earlier bus in case of weather-related delays, but this morning the vehicle had motored along, depositing him near the entrance to St. James a good forty minutes before the start of classes. The school would likely be fairly empty, most students having the tendency to dash in at the last minute.

A distantly shouted, “Faggot!” was the first thing the teen heard as he entered the building, a blast of wintry air following him inside. The blond sighed deeply as he glanced around for Hobbs and his cohorts, bracing himself to be tripped, shoved, or have his backpack snatched off his shoulder. To the teen’s surprise, he didn’t spot any of his tormentors approaching. The blond didn’t hear any other epithets either, so he simply shrugged and headed toward the hallway where his ‘new’ locker was located.

It had been an incredible hassle the previous morning to have another locker assigned, and Justin had never made it back to his Latin class after turning in his poem. Both of the principal’s secretaries had eyed him suspiciously while he’d reported that his locker had been torched. Ms Mefford, an overweight young woman with acne, who fancied herself quite the looker, had sharply interrogated the teen. “Are you sure you didn’t set the locker on fire yourself?” she’d repeatedly inquired. “Your kind are known to be attention seekers.”

The blond had barely held on to his temper as the minger had sneered at him, biting his lip so he wouldn’t ask just what  _ kind _ the cow considered him to be. Before he’d been outed, the woman had flirted with Justin on the rare occasions he’d visited the principal’s office. Mefford was only a few years older than most of the students, twenty-two at most, and was convinced that all the handsome faculty and students were panting after her. While that might be true of the principal, who was rumored to be going through a midlife crisis, the way she pandered to her favorites had always disgusted Justin. He didn’t at all miss her fumbling attempts to become better acquainted, but he still resented the implication that because he was gay he’d turned into a different, somehow loathsome person.

Although the other secretary, Ms Cuthbert - a scrawny, grey-haired, pinch-faced harridan - had shaken her head slightly after her colleague’s derisive taunting, she hadn’t otherwise expressed disagreement. Instead, she had backed up the younger woman, lecturing him about vandalizing school property and quizzing him as to whether his locker was truly unusable. Reluctantly, the two women had finally agreed that the blond could have a different locker, insisting however that he fill out three different forms before designating another metal locker as ‘his’. They’d contended that there were no more senior lockers available, even though Justin knew that at least two others in the same row as his had been empty all semester.

“You may use this vacant sophomore locker for one week,” Cuthbert had declared once the teen had completed and signed all the forms, handing him a slip containing the locker number and the combination for the padlock.

“Only a week?” the stunned teen had inquired.

“School policy when a locker has been damaged,” Mefford had interjected with a smug smile. “You’ll need to meet with Dr Perkins before the end of the week. If he’s not satisfied with your  _ tale _ of what happened to your locker, you’ll have to make do without one for the rest of the year.”

As he neared his replacement locker the following morning, Justin supposed he should be glad that he’d been able to make an appointment with the headmaster before class on Friday morning. He wouldn’t have to give up part of his lunch hour or stay behind at the end of the school day - which would have been too reminiscent of heading to detention.

The blond was jolted out of his musings when someone contemptuously prompted, “Wanna suck my cock, faggot?”

That had sounded like Hobbs, but when the teen looked around again, he still didn’t see anyone.  When metal clattered and a muffled voice begged, “Lemme go,” Justin followed the noises to a side corridor. There, the teen discovered Hobbs and one of his cronies tormenting another student, a skinny, bespectacled kid that Justin thought was one of the new freshmen. No way could he just stand by as the bully browbeat the first-year student, the blond immediately resolved.

“C’mon, faggot, you know you want it,” Hobbs asserted, unzipping his trousers as if he were actually going to feed his dick to the newbie.

“Struggling for original dialog?” Justin sardonically inquired, distracting the jock from his victim. Stepping forward, he reached out a hand to the frosh, who’d been pushed down to his knees.

“Look! It’s a faggot convention,” Chris’ buddy crowed. In spite of the guy’s bravado, Justin noticed that he looked uneasy, shifting nervously, his eyes darting about. He clearly didn’t like the idea of being seen with two ‘gay’ students.

“Don’t take it out on him,” Justin warned, when Hobbs grabbed the trembling freshman by the arm.

Behind Chris, Justin could see the jock’s accomplice edging away from the confrontation. He was soon hidden by new arrivals, who had spilled into the hallway, chattering away.

“Take what out?” Hobbs jeered, feigning confusion.

Justin drawled, “Your dick. It’s nothing to brag about anyway.”

At that moment, Justin heard his best friend yelling, “Hey! What’s going on back here?” her shoes clacking against the floor as she rushed toward them.

Chris paled and then flushed. “You’d better not tell anyone about  _ that _ ,” he threatened. Letting go of the freshman, he shoved Justin hard.

The less built teen, who’d glanced away at his friend’s shout, was caught by surprise and went arse over tit. Justin crashed face first into the locker behind him, his mouth hitting the cutout for the padlock and splitting open his bottom lip.

“That’ll teach you to keep your mouth shut,” Chris hissed, before sauntering away with a satisfied expression on his face.

“Jus, are you okay?” Daphne cried out, crouching down beside him.

“Fuck!” the teen muttered, turning around and slumping against the locker, as blood began to trickle down his chin and onto his white shirt.

“Here,” his bestie murmured, handing him a wad of tissue from a coat pocket as she examined the blond’s cut lip. “It doesn’t look too bad,” she stated as Justin dabbed at the wound.

“Bet it’s gonna look great later,” Justin moaned as he stood up. “Probably all puffy and gross.” Justin was already trying to come up with something to tell Debbie and Vic; he didn’t want his surrogate parents to be even more worried about him.

A few minutes later, the two headed toward their calculus class, Justin no longer having enough time to visit his locker beforehand. “So, what exactly happened?” Daphne asked, her brow furrowing. “Jesus, I thought you were smarter than to confront Chris like that.”

Justin explained how he’d come to the aid of another student, only realizing now that the boy had vanished as soon as Hobbs had let go of his arm.

“I’m going to kick that rat bastard where it’ll hurt,” his best friend declared.

“Just drop it, Daph, please,” the blond implored as they reached their classroom. “It won’t help. If anything, it’ll just egg Hobbs on.”

“I’m making no promises,” the girl objected, opening the door and directing a murderous glare at Chris, who was sprawled out at a desk in the back of the classroom.

Justin, who couldn’t help being warmed by his friend’s fierce defense, shot Hobbs a bland look. Chris had better watch out, he mused. Daphne might be tiny, but she packed a mighty punch.

 

Brian flopped down on his office couch, loosening his tie. His day had barely started, and he was already frustrated beyond belief. Another executive’s client had called Ryder that morning and had told him that he wasn’t happy with the proposed campaign, and that if Marty didn’t do anything about it immediately, he would search out a rival agency. His boss, not wanting to lose a contract, had reassigned the account to Brian and had given him a ridiculous deadline.

So Brian had needed to set up a conference call with his new client, Mr Fergus, to hash out what was being asked of him and what the other man liked and didn’t like about the old campaign. Surprisingly enough, the proposed design his colleague had come up with wasn’t bad at all, and it even fit all the client’s requirements, so Brian hadn’t been sure what the problem was until he had spoken to Mr Fergus.

“I changed my mind,” the client had said. “The monochromatic look is too old-fashioned.”

Brian had had to bite his lip in order to keep himself from yelling at the guy. “But you asked for monochrome,” he’d reminded him.

“I know,” Fergus had admitted, “but you guys should’ve told me it wasn’t fresh anymore. I need something hip, you know?”

Brian had snorted quietly at the word choice. “Of course, sir, I promise I will come up with something current,” he’d told the man. He hadn’t bothered to mention that monochromatic colours were actually pretty ‘hip’ right now. “How about we put in a contrasting colour to all the blue?” he had suggested.

In the end, Mr Fergus had seemed happy with the idea of contrasting the blue design Brian’s colleague had created with some bright orange details. Now, Brian sat sprawled on his couch, happy he had avoided a catastrophe but frustrated with his new client nonetheless. He closed his eyes briefly, rubbing at his temples to try and ward off the beginnings of a spectacular migraine.

It was then that his mobile phone started ringing. Patting his pockets with a sigh, Brian fished the blasted device out of his trousers and held it to his ear without ever opening his eyes.

“Kinney,” he announced in a tired voice.

“Good morning Mr Kinney, this is the Allegheny County Police Department, Officer Allen speaking. I am calling in regards to your questioning. Do you think you would have time to come to the station today?”

Brian’s eyes flew open. “Questioning? I was under the impression that you guys needed me to just look at some photos?”

The cop on the other side of the line sighed loudly. “I don’t have any information other than that you’re needed at the station, sir,” he explained. “Could you come by today at, say, two o’clock?”

The ad executive nodded to himself. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”

“You know the address, sir?” Officer Whoever asked and then, not waiting for an answer, proceeded to say, “400 N Lexington Street, entrance through security. Detective Horvath’s office is on the first floor, Homicide Division. Either he or his partner will meet you there.”

Brian couldn’t even react before the officer hung up on him. He snorted. Like hell was he going to talk to Detective Kill-You-with-a-Look Wen, he thought. He’d much rather have lard poured directly down his throat than deal with the Chinese woman again - he suspected she might have a bad influence on his virility.

Sliding his mobile back into his pocket, Brian glanced at his watch. It was nearing ten, so he had a lot of time to work on his accounts before he had to leave for the station, even with his decision to leave a bit sooner and grab a bite to eat on the way.

The laptop on his desk pinged with a new e-mail and Brian heaved himself off the couch to go and check on it.

 

After settling in at his computer station, Justin pulled up the pixelated image of a naked man he had been working on since the beginning of the semester. The previous week, he had finished painting each small square in oils, forming a nude figure seated on the floor, leaning forward with his arms loosely clasped around his knees. The teen’s goal for the year-long IT course was to morph the nude man from frozen still life into a breathing, walking man.

Justin examined the painting critically as Mr Süc worked his way around the room, assessing each student’s progress before noting down their midterm grade. The blond sighed in relief that the bulky instructor wasn’t lecturing today - the man’s monotone could put an insomniac to sleep within seconds. The teen remembered one session early in the semester when he’d awakened shortly before the end of class, only to find all the other students deeply asleep - the susurrus of snores filling the air.

The student to the right of the blond had had his face pressed against his keyboard, the computer beeping as a message repeatedly flashed -  querying whether he really wanted to delete the onscreen file. Justin hadn’t wanted his classmate to lose his work, so he’d shaken the boy’s shoulder. That had caused the pupil to rear up, almost tipping over backward in his chair, and exposing small, reddish, box-like indentations on one side of his face.

A loud wheeze had caused both teens to look toward the front of the room, only to discover that Mr Süc had succeeded in knocking himself out as well as his students. The teacher’s head had been resting on the desktop lectern and he’d flung one arm out along the table, his graying curls fluttering in the breeze from the nearby fan.

Still immersed in that memory, the teen hastily stifled a chuckle when the instructor reached his computer. The man might have the most soporific voice ever, but he was brilliant with computer graphics, and Justin was learning a lot about manipulating images.

“Very well-rendered flesh tones,” Süc praised, “and a good use of light with the suggestion of a window behind the figure.” The instructor continued to examine the painting, before commenting drily, “The pixelated representation was a good choice. Even after you add animation, the body won’t appear to be unclothed; a nude painting would give the school administrators conniptions.”

The teen was startled by Süc’s mild criticism, which caused him to blurt out, “Indeed, nudity in art is so rare, after all.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in the lecturer’s eyes as he murmured, “Haven’t you heard? Cain and Abel were fully clothed when they were born. If Abel hadn’t insisted on running around naked and making his brother jealous, humanity would have been redeemed and we’d all be living in the Garden of Eden.”

Holy fuck, Justin grinned to himself as the instructor moved on to the next student. The man had managed to deliver that quip in such a droning, deadpan voice that the teen wouldn’t have caught the sarcasm if he hadn’t been paying attention. Before this, Justin never would have suspected that a rebel hid behind the IT teacher’s rather boring facade. The sudden vision of his painting coming to life, with a naked brunet roaming the halls at St. James, almost caused the young artist to burst out laughing. It would be poetic justice to have his  _ art _ make homophobes like Dixon and Bauer bust a gusset.

 

Five minutes to two that afternoon found Brian walking through a glass door leading to the Allegheny Police Department. He quickly made it through security, signing his name in the visitors’ book and clipping on a visitor’s pass. He then headed for the stairs, following an arrow pointing to the Homicide Division. And what was up with that anyway? Why would a detective investigating a home robbery have an office in Homicide?

On the first floor, Brian went straight for the front desk. “Brian Kinney,” he introduced himself. “I’m here to see Detective Horvath.”

The officer behind the desk - presumably the same one that had called him that morning, though Brian couldn’t be sure - nodded at him. “Of course, sir. His office is through there,” he motioned to his right, pointing at a glassed-in office.

There, inside the room was sitting the very person Brian was trying to avoid, staring intently at something on her computer. The brunet took a deep breath and braced himself, refusing to be intimidated. Three long strides over to the office and he rapped on the doorframe, waiting for the busy detective to acknowledge him.

The Chinese woman raised her eyes from the computer screen slowly, focusing them on Brian. After staring at him for a second, she slightly tilted her head to the right, indicating Brian could enter the office.  

“Detective,” the adman tersely stated, clamping his lips shut so he wouldn’t say another word. Damned if he’d give her a reason to reiterate that he ‘talked too much’.

The woman blinked before silently returning her gaze to her computer. Well, that was rude, thought Brian. He stepped into the office and looked for a place to sit, but couldn’t find a chair that didn’t have a stack of paperwork on it. He cleared his throat, but the detective ignored him, concentrating on whatever was on the computer screen. He did it again, a little louder this time, but Wen still didn’t look up. After a second, though, she mumbled, “Sit wherever.”

Fucking helpful, that, when there was no free chair, Brian thought sourly. Did the copper expect him to sit on the floor? He looked around ostentatiously, shuffling from foot to foot. The female detective finally looked up, an expression of exasperation  - which looked like any other expression - on her face. “Put the files on the floor,” she instructed him slowly, looking as if each word pained her to say, “and sit down.”

Christ. Good thing she was a cop and not in advertising. She wouldn’t last a day if she took that attitude with clients. Brian wondered if he could borrow her for an hour and unleash her on the recalcitrant art department like an attack dog; she’d whip them into shape in no time. Reluctantly, he shook his head. The morons would scarper, and he’d never see them again. What seemed like an hour passed without either of them saying anything further, Brian quietly sitting on a freshly cleared chair and wishing himself somewhere - anywhere - else.

When Detective Horvath bustled into the office a few minutes later, his face almost hidden by two cardboard boxes he was toting, Brian sagged in relief. Although Wen had continued to concentrate on her computer while Brian had twiddled his thumbs, the advertising executive had felt like they were engaged in an endless stare-off. Any moment, he would have blinked and lost the contest.

The Asian stood up fluidly from behind her desk and went over to help her partner, taking one of the boxes off his hands and settling it on top of a pile of papers occupying one of the chairs in front of her desk. The bulky cop did the same with his cargo, before finally turning to Brian. “Mr Kinney,” he acknowledged his visitor. “You’re here on time, good.”

Brian pointedly glanced at his watch, which read six minutes past two, as if to say, ‘Unlike you, you mean.’

At that gesture, the copper finally seemed to notice the uncomfortable silence in the office. “Ah, Ming,” he turned to his partner, “you’re long overdue for a break. How about you go and grab a coffee?”

Wen looked at him intently for a second, before nodding in agreement. “You want me to bring you a cup?” she asked, surprising Brian with how mild she sounded. It was perhaps even possible that under the right circumstances, you could actually think she was nice - if you were blind, deaf,  _ and _ a sociopath on top of that.

“Sure, ta,” the older detective replied. “But for god’s sake, put some sugar in mine this time, would you?”

The little woman left the office without acknowledging Horvath, closing the glass door quietly behind herself. Fuck, Brian thought, how did Horvath deal with  _ that _ every day? He had to admire the man’s balls.

Detective Horvath went over to his desk and heaved a several inches thick folder out of his desk drawer before setting it down in front of Brian with a loud ‘thump’. It looked well-used, the edges bent and the plastic sleeves inside yellowed with age. “Ok, so we’ve interviewed all the potential witnesses,” the cop said. “We got several different descriptions of the burglars out of them but none of them matched any known burglars. But, well, you’ll see for yourself,” he chuckled and flipped the heavy folder open. Two faces of scowling thugs stared at Brian from the first page - no names to identify them, just a number each.

“So I should just look through and see if I don’t recognise anyone?” the ad executive asked.

Horvath nodded. “That’s the idea.” The cop then went back to sit at his desk. “I’ll be over here, working,” he told Brian. “Holler if you recognise anyone.”

The brunet nodded, turning a page in the ‘thug book’ and inspecting another set of faces. None of them seemed even familiar, though he would bet his designer shoes that number five was gay.

Thirty minutes and over a hundred faces later, Brian closed the folder with a sigh and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Nothing,” he concluded dejectedly. “There were a few guys that seemed a little familiar but I think they just had one of those faces, you know?”

Horvath nodded. “Yeah, we get that a lot. Number sixty-three is apparently a distant relative of at least fifty different people.”

Brian flipped the folder back open and searched out the man in question. He inspected the generic face carefully and then chuckled. “That one definitely looks like he could be my cousin,” he assented, humour in his voice. “We try to use people like that for advertising - it’s always a plus if you think you know the guy who’s trying to sell you a toothbrush.”

The detective narrowed his eyes at him in curiosity. “I bet,” he muttered.

Figuring he probably shouldn’t be divulging his trade secrets, Brian quickly changed the subject, “So what now? I haven’t given you any leads; is that it?”

The bulky cop shook his head. “Of course not, I can assure you we won’t give up. Wen and I scarcely leave a case unsolved. Granted, we’re not used to robberies anymore, but we’ll do our best.”

Brian, though, recognised a platitude when he heard one. “Okay, now how about you forget the company line and tell me the truth?” he suggested. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, he thought to himself.

Horvath sighed. “The likelihood of catching these guys _ is _ decreasing day by day,” he admitted. “But we’re still waiting for the forensics report and the results of the technician’s inspection of your alarm system, so we might get some new leads yet. Also, if we bring in anyone who might’ve had a hand in the burglary, Wen will get the truth out of them. She’s useful like that,” he finished fondly.

“I can imagine,” commented Brian drily.

Horvath continued, “So we’ll let you know if anything new comes up, Mr Kinney.”

The brunet bit his lip. “You could at least tell me if you’ve already crossed me off your suspect list,” he requested. “My insurance company would love to hear I’m innocent and am not trying to sell them down the river. I won’t get compensated for everything as it is anyway - some of the smaller stuff is a pain to document, especially since the robbers made away with the cabinet that held my documentation and receipts.”

Horvath nodded. “You can give them my number and have the call me; I’ll assure them you’re out of the question as a suspect,” he told him. “We went through your bank records and checked your alibi and came up with nothing suspicious.”

“Good.” Brian was relieved at this pronouncement - insurance agents were a headache whenever you had to deal with them, but the assurance of his innocence would certainly help matters. The glacial slowness with which the insurers were proceeding might speed up too. The company doubtless thought the eleven days that had elapsed since the robbery was no time at all, but it was an eon for the brunet. He desperately needed to replace more of his possessions, but didn’t want to strain his finances any further until he’d received at least a partial reimbursement.

Right then a ruckus from outside the office disturbed the two men, who turned their heads to look just as a lanky black teenager sprinted past the office, hands cuffed behind his back. A second later, a muscled police officer sitting at a nearby desk jumped up and tackled the kid to the ground. Brian stared in astonishment - he had seen scenes like this only on the telly up till now.

Horvath sighed for a second time. “That’s Jerome Whity,” he told him. “And the one who tackled him is his older brother Officer Marvin Whity. Jerome is a recidivist - small theft, a few disturbances - he keeps getting arrested and then always tries to do a runner. I think it’s just to make Marvin pay attention to him - ever since their mother died, he doesn’t have anyone else.”

Brian snorted. “You don’t keep a very tight ship here, do you?”

That earned him a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you have criminals trying to run away, teenagers sneaking through your police tape without you noticing - I’m really not that surprised you haven’t found the burglars yet.”

Horvath actually looked angry - something Brian hadn’t seen on the mellow policeman’s face yet. “What are you on about?”

Shrugging, the ad exec elaborated, “Justin somehow managed to get his backpack back while the loft was still closed up. Now, I don’t want him to get in trouble, but I would’ve thought you’d at least notice.”

The copper raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want him to get in trouble, and yet you tell a cop that he broke the law?”

Uh oh, thought Brian, belatedly realising that he had misstepped. He had honestly never wanted to grass Justin up - he was just frustrated that nothing was happening and was merely lashing out. “Forget it,” he told Horvath. “I was just stirring up trouble. I, uh, I was actually the one to fetch that rucksack for him.”

The older man shook his head. “Don’t dig yourself any deeper, Mr Kinney,” he advised. “No one broke any laws. Young Mr Taylor asked if I could bring him his school backpack and I, after releasing it from evidence, went and gave it to him.”

“Oh.”

They fell into an awkward silence, which was made even worse by Detective You-Talk-Too-Much returning with two cups of coffee in her hands. She set them both on Horvath’s desk, folding her arms across her chest. “Anything?” she asked.

Her partner shook his head. “No,” he told her, inspecting the two cups of coffee carefully. Wen waited him out, until he looked up at her. “Ok, I give up,” he said. “Which one’s battery acid and which one’s coffee?”

The Chinese woman, grabbed the cup nearer to her and took a sip. She then wordlessly returned to her own desk.

Horvath turned to Brian, sipping at his own coffee. “I think that will be all for now, Mr Kinney. We’ll call you if we come up with anything.”

And that was a dismissal if he’d ever heard one. Brian nodded, shook hands with the male detective, and gave a carefully controlled nod to the female one. Then he promptly left the office, making sure to give a wide berth to the bickering Whity brothers on his way past them.

As he stepped out of the building, he was glad to encounter the icy outdoor air; it helped clear the miasma of frustration which had settled over him while he’d been fruitlessly leafing through all those mugshots. Pulling on his gloves, he began to descend the stairs, almost bumping into to a very judgemental-looking old lady who reminded him of his mother. She curled her lip at him and sneered disdainfully, as if smelling something bad. Why, Brian had no idea. Maybe she had an exceptional gaydar and suspected the nattily dressed ad exec was a fag. Bad enough that he had to take that judgemental crap from his mom, he wasn’t going to accept it from this crone. Deciding to toy with her, he loudly exclaimed, ”Geesh, I haven’t seen this city in five years! The warden let me out for two whole hours.”

That took care of the gray-haired biddy. After casting a frightened glance in his direction, she scurried up the stairs - almost tripping and falling on her arse in her hurry - doubtless in search of protection from the city’s finest. Brian supposed he should be ashamed of himself for terrifying the beldame, but his radar for self-righteous, priggish, ‘good Christian women’ was even more infallible than his gaydar. The brunet shuddered as he hastened toward his jeep, hating the childhood memories that were seeping into his brain.

His father had been a physically abusive bastard while he was growing up, but Joan had been far more loathsome - emotionally distant and unloving, the antithesis of what a mother should be. One of his earliest memories, when he’d been maybe four or five years old, was of his dad watching a football game and alternately cheering and cursing one of the teams. Brian had gotten all excited when the team he’d thought his dad was rooting for had scored, jumping up and down and clapping. Jack, who’d been drinking steadily all afternoon, had screamed, “You dumbass little shit! That was the Green Bay Packers, not the Steelers.” before tossing him against the wall.

When Brian had crawled into the kitchen, whimpering at the pain, Joan had eyed him dispassionately, commanding the little boy to “be a man and stop that snivelling.” Then she’d taken another healthy swig of wine and resumed reading her bible. The brunet thought that his belief that ‘love’ was a load of crap and that he was completely unlovable could be traced back to that afternoon. It wasn’t until he’d met Michael and then Debbie that he’d realized not all mothers behaved like Joan. It had been too late, however, to change his opinion about love, which had already been cemented by years of physical and emotional abuse. And he had yet to meet a man who might qualify as a loving father.

Fuck. He needed a drink to get rid of the bad taste from his trip down the memory lane. Completely wrung out, Brian decided to call it a day, heading to the loft and his restocked liquor cabinet. There weren’t any accounts at a critical stage, so work could wait till tomorrow.

 

Justin jogged toward the diner at a quarter to four, startled to see a small horde of customers making their way into the eatery before the early dinner rush had properly begun. As soon as he got inside, he sidled around the new arrivals, going directly to the break room to change. When he emerged, pulling his apron over his head, he hurried to clear some tables so the patrons would have places to sit. Debbie was taking orders at the back of the eatery which, amazingly, was even busier than the day before. The blond mused that the icy weather must be driving people indoors in search of something hot to drink and eat.

“Well, hi, there, Cutie,” a throaty voice greeted him as he whipped out his notepad to take orders from a group of extravagantly garbed drag queens.

The teen grinned happily, feeling right at home in the diner. That was a far better greeting than the one which had assaulted his ears as he’d entered St. James this morning. When he looked at the lady who’d spoken, his grin broadened. The teen certainly hadn’t expected to encounter this new acquaintance during the day. “Marvella,” he exclaimed, “are you out slumming?”

The queen, who was clad from head to toe in a beruffled, hot pink ensemble, shrieked in delight, her two friends joining in her merriment. “I left DC in charge,” she revealed with a flirty wink, “so I’d best not stay away for too long.”

After delivering their orders along with those from two other tables to the kitchen, Justin returned with their drinks. He didn’t linger since other customers were waiting, but as he moved away from the table, he was stopped by a pink-taloned hand closing around his wrist. “Doll,” Marvella asked quietly, “did your boyfriend do that to you?”

Gaping at the drag queen stupidly, Justin tried to figure out what the woman was talking about. It was only when he realized she was staring at his mouth that he remembered his split lip which, naturally, began throbbing. His cheekbone was suddenly achy and painful too. And then, his right shoulder - which had also rammed into the locker, but hadn’t twinged previously - joined in the chorus. “Uh,” he stuttered, “I took quite the tumble at school.” Fuck, he thought, as Marvella gazed at him skeptically, that hadn’t come off the least bit believable.

“Sugar,” she offered, still speaking softly while her friends gossiped on the other side of the booth, “I’d be glad to help you if you need a hand. I know what it’s like to be in an abusive relationship.”

Fuck, Justin thought again, she couldn’t be more wrong. He wasn’t in a relationship; heck, he wasn’t even tricking at the moment - something he’d like to rectify, except that he didn’t have time for anything except his own hand. “No boyfriend,” he reassured the kindly queen. “Just an accident at school. That’s all.”

Marvella still looked doubtful, but she nodded at the teen, releasing his wrist. When Justin turned around, however, he ran smack dab into Debbie. “What’s this, Sunshine?” she inquired, placing a hand under his chin and turning his face to the side to examine what must surely be a vivid bruise.

“Ehm,” the teen spluttered, not having had time to refine his story, “I fell down at school and whacked my face against a cabinet.” More or less true, he reflected, hoping the motherly woman would let it go - at least for now.

“Hmm,” Debbie peered at his injuries, before gently patting his cheek. “There’s some Neosporin in the first aid kit in the staff room. Go wash up and then put some on your face.”

“But,” Justin argued, “I can’t just leave you with-”

The redhead cut him off, “Kiddo, I’ve been handling this diner full of fags since long before you were born. I’m pretty sure I can do that for another ten minutes. Now, skedaddle,” she ordered.

The antibiotic ointment had helped, reducing the swelling and easing his aches, the teen mused as he walked home that evening. He’d even reached under his t-shirt to rub some into his shoulder, which had made it easier to cart around tubs full of dirty dishes. Debbie had been the one to deliver their food-laden plates to Marvella and her twittering friends, which had allowed the teen to escape further quizzing from the concerned queen. He’d become anxious when he’d seen Deb and Marvella with their heads together, the redheaded waitress even sitting down next to the drag queen for a few minutes, both of them glancing in his direction. Debbie hadn’t said anything to him, however, and he’d relaxed, figuring she’d probably set Marvella straight about the illusionary boyfriend. Waving farewell when the trio of queens had departed, he’d been certain Deb had accepted his weak excuse about falling. He’d thought that until she turned to him with serious eyes at the end of her shift, anyway. As she’d left the diner, she’d warned him that she expected the entire story when he got home.

 

Unlatching the front door to Deb’s house a few hours later, Justin entertained a vague hope that the redhead might have somehow forgotten her pledge to winkle the tale out of him. No such luck. “There you are, Sunshine,” she greeted him, stepping out of the kitchen. “Come tell us all about it, then.”

The enticing, spicy aroma wafting out of the kitchen made the blond’s stomach rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten, too busy rushing around the crowded diner to take a break. Debbie’s eyebrows rose at the noise, and she queried, “Do I need to have a word with Harry again?” embarrassing the teen. “A growing boy like you needs to eat.”

The red-faced teen supposed this was part and parcel of having a mother, although he didn’t recall Jennifer ever insisting that he eat. She’d always provided three meals a day as well as snacks, but if he missed lunch or dinner, it had been up to him to scrounge something to eat. “Eh, I think I’m as tall as I’m gonna get,” he sputtered, following Debbie toward the kitchen.

“Maybe,” she replied, pulling a bowlful of cannelloni out of the fridge, “but it’s not uncommon for a young man to add an inch or two in his late teens.”

“That’ll certainly make Sunshine more popular,” Vic quipped from his seat at the kitchen table.

Debbie cackled, swatting her brother upside the head. “Height, Vic, not length,” she chastised.

The teen grinned at the siblings’ repartee, dropping his backpack onto the floor and settling in at the kitchen table across from Vic. He couldn’t imagine his parents teasing each other about anything sexual; in fact, if he and Molly didn’t look so much like their mom, he’d suspect they had been adopted. It wasn’t just that it grossed him out to think about his parents having sex; it was more that they never seemed to exchange affectionate touches or glances.

“Eat up, Kiddo,” Deb interrupted his contemplations, plunking a plate of the reheated pasta and a glass of milk down in front of him. “Even if you aren’t ‘growing’ anywhere, you’re still a teenaged, bottomless pit.”

“I think that’s a bottomless butt,” Vic retorted, making the blond grateful that he hadn’t yet taken a bite; otherwise, he would have spewed food all over the table.

Chuckling, he said, “Thanks, Debs, this’ll do the trick.”

Vic, who was evidently on a roll, interjected, “That’s not the kind of trick a self-respecting fag wants.”

“It’s the kind he  _ needs _ ,” the redhead wisecracked, “if our Sunshine’s going to look for the kind he  _ wants _ .”

“Eat hearty if you wanna party,” Vic concurred with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You’d better build up your strength.”

After the flushed teen had wolfed down the delicious noodle dish, Deb grabbed the bowl, placed it in the sink, and ran some soapy water into it. She returned to the table with a large slice of pumpkin bread, setting it in front Justin before topping up his milk. “Okay, Kiddo, spill,” she demanded. “How’d you get those bruises?”

Justin inhaled deeply, the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg making him think of the approaching Thanksgiving holiday. For years, he and his mom had baked up a storm in preparation - pies, breads, and cakes. Soothed by the homey, comforting smells - and purposely chasing away the thought that he wouldn’t be baking with his mom this year - he calmly responded, “Like I told Deb, I fell-”

The teen stopped talking when he saw Vic shaking his head, the older man asserting, “You’re not a klutz, Sunshine, so I doubt you simply tripped over your own two feet and fell against a cabinet, somehow splitting your lip and bruising the right side of your body in the process.”

Shit. Deb had clearly filled Vic in on what he’d told her. He should have modified his explanation, but it had seemed like it would be better to stick to his original story.

“Try again, Honey,” Debbie suggested.

His shoulders sagging, Justin divulged a few of the details, “I got into a scuffle at school, and when the other guy shoved me, I banged into that cabinet I mentioned before. Really, though, it’s not that bad,” he insisted. “I just got a bit bruised.”

“You’re smarter than to get involved in a fracas for no good reason,” Vic claimed, unknowingly echoing Daphne. “So, why were you fighting?”

“Another student was being tormented for being gay,” Justin passionately burst out, “and I couldn’t just leave him at the the mercy of the jocks bullying him.”

“What did you do? Throw a punch?” Vic asked, glancing at the teen’s unbruised knuckles.

“Uh, no,” Justin sheepishly admitted, “but I may have verbally provoked one of the jocks.” When both siblings looked at him inquiringly, he continued, “I implied he has a tiny dick.”

A guffaw escaped Debbie before she clapped her hand over her mouth, gasping, “That doesn’t sound like the best approach, Kiddo, even if it’s true.”

“Maybe not, but Ho-, uh, the bully, did let go of the frosh before pushing me. Other students were arriving, so he scarpered after that.” Deb and Vic didn’t need to know about Hobbs’ parting threat or how Daphne had stood up for him, the teen decided.

“A torched locker yesterday, and bruises today,” his surrogate mother stated in an eerily calm voice. Staring directly into Justin’s eyes, she declared, “One more thing happens, Sunshine, and I’m marching over to that school and giving that principal a piece of my mind. No more sorting it by yourself. You won’t deter me again, understood?”

“I’ll be right there at Sis’ side,” Vic firmly backed Debbie up.

Justin felt tears stinging his eyes and blinked furiously, willing them not to fall. Why couldn’t his parents be like Deb and Vic, loving him no matter what? Vowing to himself that there would be no reason for his surrogate parents to visit St. James, he croaked, “Got it,” swallowing the lump in his throat before busying himself with a forkful of pumpkin bread.

“Heck, Debs, this is scrumptious,” the teen exclaimed, stunned by how much better it tasted than any he’d had before.

“Old family recipe,” Deb stated with a pleased smile.

“This time she’s telling the truth,” Vic kidded. “That didn’t come from a box mix.”

“It’s a whole order better than what I’ve made with my mom,” Justin professed. “Speaking of, I’d better give her a ring and ask for my birth certificate. Could I maybe have another piece after that?”

“Of course, Sunshine. I’ll cut it for you now,” Debbie offered, as Justin stood up and walked over to the wall phone.

After dialing, Justin waited for someone to pick up. He was fairly certain his dad wouldn’t be home, since he’d been in the habit of not turning up before ten at night well before he’d found out his son was gay. What Craig was up to so late at night, Justin wasn’t sure - and now he didn’t really care.

“Hello?” his mom finally picked up after the tenth ring.

“Mom, it’s me,” Justin identified himself.

“Oh, this is a nice surprise,” Jennifer chirped. “I’ve been wondering how you were coping with the snowy weather.”

The weather, again? It had been a week since they’d talked, and that was the best his mom could do? Justin held the handset away from his ear and stared at it for a moment in disbelief, before deciding that his mother was nothing if not  _ predictable _ . ‘Gee, Mom, I’m fine. Thanks for caring,’ he imagined himself caustically responding. Instead, he sucked in a breath, and said, “I’m okay, Mom. No real problems with the snow. Listen, the reason I’m calling is because I need my birth certificate. Do you think you could bring it to-”

Before he could complete his request, Jennifer interrupted, “Surely, there’s no reason you need it, Honey. Daddy’s keeping it secure for you here in the wall safe.”

What the fuck? Calling Craig ‘Daddy’? Was his mother losing her marbles? the perplexed teen wondered. He wasn’t five years old any longer.

“Mom, I need it for some paperwork,” Justin elaborated, seeing no point in going into further detail, since Jennifer was already raising objections. “Couldn’t you bring it to me at school or at the diner?”

“That’s really not convenient for me,” Jennifer replied in a frosty voice. “You could be a little more considerate, Justin.”

The blond’s fist clenched so tightly around the handset that he was afraid the plastic might crack.  _ He _ should be more considerate? the teen fumed to himself. Another deep breath and he prodded, “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, Mom, but couldn’t you get it to me next week?”

“I really don’t think I can do that, Justin, not without talking to your father first,” Jen demurred.

“Fuck,” Justin muttered, biting his tongue so he wouldn’t shout at his mom, which wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Let me, Sunshine,” Debbie interceded, motioning for the teen to give her the phone.

Justin gladly relinquished the handset; maybe the redhead could get through to his mother.

“Jennifer,” Deb cordially greeted his mom, before the side of the conversation that the teen could hear rapidly went downhill. The fiery redhead proceeded to threaten that Justin would be filing for Debbie to become his legal guardian if Jen couldn’t be bothered to give her son his birth certificate, concluding with, “And I bet you wouldn’t want the news that Craig kicked out his gay son to make the rounds at your country club, now would you?”

Justin was nearly biting his nails in anxiety, certain his mother would slam the phone down in Debbie’s ear. A few moments later, however, Deb said, “I’ll just give the phone back to Sunshine, so you two can arrange a time to meet.” With a smug smile and a saucy wink she passed the phone back to the amazed blond.

The upshot was that his cowed mom agreed to meet him for breakfast the following Tuesday morning at the diner. “That was brilliant, Debs!” the beaming teen exclaimed, giving his foster mother a hug.

“Sis, you have titanium balls,” Vic chuckled.

“Damn tootin’, I do,” Debbie agreed. “Let’s all have some pumpkin bread with vanilla ice cream to celebrate Sunshine’s ‘emancipation’.”

The three of them slurped down thick slices of the sweet bread and large scoops of ice cream, while debating what dishes they should make for Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Thank Christ, Brian thought as the thumpa-thumpa beat of Babylon surrounded him. Ever since the unwanted trip down memory lane - triggered by the Joanie clone on the police station stairs - he’d been craving the relief of a good, hard fuck. Even numerous shots of Beam and a couple of reefers hadn’t reduced the raw emotions engendered by memories of his childhood. Sinking into the warmth of another man was the only surefire way to eradicate the  _ warden’s _ poison from his mind. The tallish, barechested brunet descending the stairs from the catwalk would do for a start, he decided, nodding toward the backroom when he caught the man’s eye. Brian waited a couple minutes before strolling after his prey; it wouldn’t do for the stud to appear too eager.

A quick suck and fuck later, he pranced back into the main room. Not nearly enough, but at least it had taken the edge off. At the bar, he nodded in acknowledgement when Rico held up two fingers, inquiring whether he wanted a double. There was no need for the bartender to ask what he wanted to drink, since it never varied, unless he tacked on a bottle of water to wash down pills.

Brian scanned the dance floor as he sipped his bourbon, disappointed that the pickings were so slim tonight. Sadly, it seemed that - unlike Brian - most of Pittsburgh’s fags couldn’t party half the night and perform brilliantly at work the next day. The adman discounted the one, never-to-be-reprised, exception when he woken up to a bulldyke slobbering on this chest. Any self-respecting fag would have gotten a hangover from that alone; it’d had absolutely nothing to do with the joint and bottle of booze they’d shared.

Ten minutes later, Brian despaired that he’d either have to give up on finding another worthy trick or settle for a repeat - maybe someone he’d only allowed to suck him previously. Although it wasn’t what he wanted, he could always watch porn and settle for a handjob…

As he was about to turn around and order another shot, Brian espied a bloke in a midnight blue, sleeveless shirt with nicely toned arms who just might be acceptable. The fellow was a good five inches taller than Brian, with longer legs as well, which was a touch irritating, the brunet preferring tricks who were slightly shorter than himself. Experience had taught him that the aura of Brian fucking Kinney wasn’t as effective when he had to look up at a trick. That wouldn’t matter, though, with the guy down on his knees, and if the man then wanted Brian to give him the fuck of a lifetime, he’d just have to just have to brace himself against the wall and spread his legs a little wider. That sorted, the brunet motioned toward the backroom when Mr Tall glanced his way, soon ambling after him.

While the beanstalk was doing a fairly decent job of blowing him, the brunet recollected Emmett’s comment about his usual tricks being so boring, basically just bland Brian clones. The ad exec snorted as he briefly peered down at his current toy. The flamboyant queen was clearly wrong, what with this one being much taller, annoyingly so in fact. So what if the man’s hair was barely a shade darker than Brian’s? And if he was muscled and fit, well, that just proved Brian had good taste in tricks, right? If he were truly a lookalike, he’d possess at least nine-and-a-half inches where it really counted, and the brunet had yet to meet a trick who measured up to that standard.

In spite of his efforts to reassure himself that he allowed for plenty of variety in the tricks he pulled, Brian couldn’t help thinking about the flaming queen’s words. He wouldn’t have selected this giant if he’d had a better assortment to cull from on this boring Tuesday night at Babylon. As the beanpole continued to industriously tongue his prick, Brian’s thoughts veered to the one true variation on his theme - Justin. The hair color and height might be all ‘wrong’, but the muscles were there, especially in those thighs which would wrap ever so tightly around Brian’s waist. The inches, well, some of what should have added to the blond’s stature had ended up in another place, somewhere much more important. And the mouth on the boy… Brian hardened as he contemplated the most talented cocksucking skills he’d ever encountered.

He was brought out of his daydream when bony fingers pinched his balls a little too tightly, disturbing his contemplations and making him yelp. He reminded himself that he was on the outs with Justin, and that he had to resort to men like Pittsburgh’s resident skyscraper who was currently blowing him. Suddenly disgusted with the situation, Brian growled, “Get off me.” shoving the hapless trick away and stalking out into the club.

There was no way Brian could tolerate a subpar blowjob now that he had Sunshine on his mind - as had been the case since his visit to the police station that afternoon. Discovering the brat hadn’t sneaked into the loft to retrieve his duffel bag had been the highlight of a largely futile trip. The blond muppet was still at fault for the robbery, but at least he wasn’t also deceitful, which made Brian feel more kindly toward him.

Speaking of someone who might well be dishonest, it was high time Brian tracked down Smythe and determined his intentions toward the teenager. Brian prowled around the club, searching for Babylon’s owner, periodically thinking he’d caught a glimpse of the man, only to have him vanish again.

He finally ran Smythe down in the men’s room an hour later.

“Mr Kinney,” the owner nodded in friendly acknowledgement as they stood at the urinals.

The adman’s eyes narrowed as he took in the man’s flushed face, rapid breathing, and mischievous expression. Although he’d never met the man, the brunet wasn’t surprised the owner knew him. Brian was  _ the _ Stud of Liberty Avenue, after all, and his frequent presence at Babylon was one of the reasons the club was so popular. But why did the bloke look so pleased with himself? he pondered. Had Smythe deliberately been leading him on a chase? If so, why? Quirking an eyebrow, he drily returned the greeting, “Smythe, I presume?”

“At your service,” the owner responded, bowing slightly and somehow managing to keep the gesture from looking ridiculous while holding his prick in his hand.

Suave fucker, Brian mused. No wonder Sunshine seemed so keen on the man. In an effort to knock the fellow off kilter, he tried the direct approach. “So what was all that in aid of?” he queried. When Smythe tilted his head quizzically, he clarified, “Having me hunt you down, like a hound after a fox.”

As they zipped up and exited the restroom, the owner chuckled happily. “Come, come, Mr Kinney, I knew it was just a matter of time before you searched me out. After all, it’s your young lover I’m wanting to employ.”

Brian gritted his teeth. Justin had never been his lover and he never would be. The blond kid would learn sooner or later that the stuff he was constantly spouting about love was garbage. Fucking, not love, was all that mattered. Prior to the burglary, it had simply been convenient for Brian to let the teen stay at the loft - a warm, willing body that provided sex on demand. It wasn’t like he cared about the boy - no more than any of his friends anyway. None of that was Smythe’s business, however, so Brian simply inquired, “Did you realize the lad’s still in high school?” Maybe that would be enough to put the man off hiring Justin.

“Why, yes, the young man was quite up front with me. Refreshingly honest, I must say,” Smythe replied.

Dammit. That hadn’t worked. Did the smug bastard know Justin was under eighteen? Hiring an underage teen to work in a bar seemed like a somewhat iffy proposition to the ad exec, but as long as the man didn’t entrust Justin with handling sales of alcohol, have him stripping, or doing anything illegal, he was within his rights to employ Justin. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he rather ineffectively warned, “so there’d better not be any shenanigans, like feeding the boy poppers.”

Brian couldn’t help feeling like an idiot for having said that. Poppers were one of the few items to be reliably found in the fridge at his loft, with both him and the teen occasionally indulging. Drugs for recreational purposes were a far cry, though, from drugs used to keep a go-go boy dancing all night long.

“Relax, Mr Kinney, I run a drug-free operation,” Smythe alleged. When Brian rolled his eyes at that, the bloke added sharply, “I’m aware of the deals Anita makes - with _ you  _ among others - but none of my employees partake while working.” As they approached the bar, he motioned to Rico, who deposited shots of whiskey in front of them. Turning to the brunet, he handed him one of the glasses and asked, “Does that allay your concerns?”

Shrugging, Brian grunted, “For now,” tossing back the shot before abruptly turning away. There was no reason to extend the conversation and, given the trolls in the club, he might as well keep that date with his hand back at the loft.

 

Once the Thanksgiving menu had been hashed out at the Grassi-Novotny house - the table would definitely be creaking under the weight of all that food - the siblings had headed to the living room to watch TV, while Justin had gone up to his bedroom to study. It might help Daphne prepare for Friday’s calculus exam, he decided, if he drafted some sample problems for their study session the next day. Maybe it would also assist him with the difficult task of raising his score from the midterm, since he had very little room for improvement. An hour and a half later, he had twenty problems written out - some extrapolated from the exam and others based on equations and derivatives in the textbook. He felt more confident than ever about the subject matter and decided this was one of the methods he’d use from now on to get ready for future tests.

Resolving to stick with his newly-established routine of catching an earlier bus, Justin slid into bed before the time that had been his wont, snuggling into the warmth of the duvet. Michael had apparently never acquired a Captain Astro slipcover for the comforter, so that made one eyesore fewer in the bedroom in the blond’s opinion. He much preferred the dark blue cover, which Debbie’s nonna had embroidered with a simple scrolled design along the edges. Even if Brian were a gay superhero, the teen mused, he wouldn’t want to be surrounded by so many miniature replicas of the man.

While he was drifting off, Justin realized that he hadn’t seen Brian for three whole days. That startled the blond into wakefulness. Whether or not the brunet had breakfasted or lunched at the diner, he often stopped by in the late afternoon too; it was unusual for him to skip the eatery for three days running. Mulling it over, Justin determined that it wasn’t actually a bad thing for him. He still thought about Brian frequently, but he no longer missed him as much as he had right after the burglary. The teenager needed to accept that his ex-lover was no longer interested in him - as Brian had clearly stated more than once - and that maybe it really was time for Justin to move on. Perhaps he’d give some other guy a chance, or at least find a fuck buddy? On that thought, the blond fell soundly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a graphic accompanying this chapter that you can see at: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=13


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back! Apologies for the inactivity but we’ll be updating again from now on. It may not be as regular as before, but we will update as often as possible.  
> We’ve had a few comments about the combination of English and American English in our story. We feel like it adds character to our story, and don’t think we should change that, so we hope you’re enjoying it (and maybe even learning a few new words here and there).  
> Also, keep in mind that in our story, it’s been less than two weeks since the burglary :)

The blond teenager had discovered another advantage to taking an earlier bus to school. Not only did he no longer have to worry about making it to class on time if the bus were running late, the Port Authority vehicle that departed from Liberty Avenue at ten minutes past six was also much less crowded than the one that left shortly before seven o’clock. Although he still had to transfer once, his wait for the next bus wasn’t as long.

Justin selected a seat near the middle of the bus, close to the exit doors on this Wednesday morning. He then pulled out his spare sketchbook - _not_ the private one he kept in the desk in Michael’s room, because he no longer dared carry that one around for fear the Hobbs or another bully would get hold of it.  As he flipped open the pad and began sketching, he reflected that he’d have to be careful to avoid Hobbs and his cronies, especially since he didn’t want to give Debbie and Vic any more cause for concern.

While he mulled over how to avoid the jocks, his fingers were flying across the page - he’d been itching to capture the apple-cheeked woman with the craggy features who’d boarded the bus just before him. This was the second day in a row that he’d seen her, and he marveled again at her positive outlook. She was wearing a black garbage bag as a poncho and toting what appeared to be all her possessions in another trash bag. Yet, she’d saluted the driver with a jaunty “G’day, mate” as if she had not a care in the world.

The teen doubted he’d be so sanguine if he were in her shoes. Far worse to be homeless, without family to offer him a place to stay, than to be in his current situation. Sure, he had to evade the bullies at St. James, but that was doable. After thinking about it, Justin had realized Hobbs and his pals were probably arriving early for football practice, so it should be easy enough to escape their notice as long as he didn’t go anywhere near the football field. His new locker, unfortunately, was in fairly close proximity to the gym, but he could always skip using it in the morning.

In fact, as long as he was getting to school well before eight o’clock, maybe he could hang out in the library until classes started. He’d have to check with Frau Rose this morning; the librarian was an early arrival and usually opened the book room by seven. Relieved to have found a feasible method for dealing with Hobbs, Justin glanced again at the homeless woman, who had taken a seat near the front of the bus and was merrily chatting away with the driver, the sack with her worldly goods wedged between her feet. His brow furrowing, the teen looked back down at his drawing, trying to figure out what was missing. Ah. Her cheeks needed to be shaded differently to bring out the ‘color’ infusing them. The blond artist quickly smudged the charcoal with the edge of his thumb, producing the effect he’d wanted, before reaching up to tug on the cord so the driver would halt at the next stop.

Justin kept the sketchbook open to the picture as he stood up, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder. Rather than using the exit by his seat, the teen moved toward the front of the bus, removing the drawing as he went. Before he could change his mind, he dropped the portrait onto the homeless woman’s lap, calling “Cheerio” to the driver as he jumped down to the sidewalk. He’d been tempted to add the finished likeness to his portfolio, but it had seemed more appropriate to bestow it on the cheery woman as a thank you for putting his own circumstances into perspective.

 

Half an hour later, after alighting at the bus stop near St. James, he hurried through the school corridors toward the library. The teen was chuffed to see that he’d guessed right; the door was open, and he glimpsed Frau Rose reshelving some books. When he knocked on the door, the English teacher looked over, placing a hand on her chest as if in shock and teasing, “What are you doing here at this hour, young man? I remember how you could barely keep your eyes open during my eight a.m. literature class.”

The teen’s face reddened. It was true that he’d never been much of a morning person, and although the sprightly teacher had chosen what were to become some of his favorite literary works for that sophomore course, he hadn’t fully awakened until his morning cup of joe kicked in - usually around twenty minutes into the lesson. “Yeah, well, if a worm is the reward for being an early bird, I may have to reconsider my new approach to mornings,” he joshed.

The librarian playfully shook her forefinger at Justin and scolded, “Only bookworms allowed in here, young man.”

Pretending fright, the blond dashed behind the next shelf, before peering out and cheekily questioning, “The kind that read books or the kind that eat paper?”

“The kind that shelves books,” Frau Rose teasingly retorted, placing a stack of books in the teen’s hands. “Those all go in the row you’re standing in,” she instructed.

After shrugging off his backpack, Justin obligingly began returning the books to their proper locations. “Would it be okay if I hung out in here most days before my first class?” he diffidently inquired, before elaborating, “I’m taking an earlier bus to be sure I won’t be late, but that means I end up getting here well ahead of time.”

“Hmm,” the librarian murmured from the next aisle, “far be it from me to prevent an eager student from _carpe diem_.”

The teen chuckled wryly, “Part of my _quam minimum credula postero_ philosophy.”

As they met up at the book cart, Frau Rose looked closely at Justin, a worried frown on her face. “Come with me,” she ordered, leading the way to the small restroom provided for the librarian’s use.

Bewildered, the blond followed along behind the woman, wondering what was up - the bitter note in his voice shouldn’t have aroused such concern. Once he glanced at himself in the mirror over the sink, however, he immediately understood what had caught Frau Rose’s notice. He’d taken a smidge of Deb’s concealer from the jar in the medicine cabinet earlier that morning and had used it to disguise his black eye. That had been his intention anyway. He’d thought he’d thoroughly smoothed the makeup around his eye and along his cheekbone; however, he could now see that he’d done an uneven job with the cosmetic - probably attracting rather than deflecting attention.

When Justin shook his head in response to her raised eyebrows, the librarian didn’t say a word about his black eye, simply suggesting, “Let’s touch this up.” She used a tissue to even out the makeup the teen had already applied and then touched it up with concealer from a compact on a shelf above the sink.

The blond felt incredibly embarrassed that he’d made such a poor effort at concealing his bruises. “Thanks,” he muttered as the librarian finished the camouflage job. He figured his favorite teacher must have heard not only about his torched locker but also about yesterday’s ‘altercation’ and greatly appreciated her silence on the subject.

“This color’s a better match for your skin tone,” Frau Rose stated, pressing the compact into his hand. “Keep this for as long as you need it.”

“But-” Justin protested, placing the item back on the ledge.

“Ah,” the librarian surmised, “you’d rather come back here when you need to reapply it, am I right?”

The teen nodded gratefully before exiting the bathroom and heading back to the book cart. Frau Rose, however, shooed him away, ordering, “Study or relax for a bit, Justin. The bell for first period will ring soon enough.”

Justin gave her a sunny grin, before sitting down and pulling out his sketchbook for the second time that morning. As a picture of the librarian shelving books began to take shape under his fingers, he decided he would create a collage of drawings that he could present to her at the end of the semester.

As they cleared tables after the early dinner rush later that day, Deb nudged Justin in the ribs and declared, “That’s going to be some do tomorrow night, huh?”

The teenager stared at her blankly, having no clue what she was on about. Before he could ask about what party she meant, Debbie went on, “What’d you get Michael for his birthday anyhow? You know me; I’m nosy, especially where my son is concerned.”

Justin couldn’t help feeling left out - not only because he clearly hadn’t been invited to Michael’s party but also because he actually hadn’t known about it at all - although he did his best to hide it. Fortunately, Debbie rattled on about the gifts she’d purchased, including a Wonder Woman wristwatch, and didn’t catch his fleeting look of hurt.

By the time Debs finished reciting all the presents she had for Michael, Justin had composed himself, offering in an unruffled manner, “What if I work a double shift, so you have plenty of time to prepare for the party? You could give Michael my gift, right?” He wanted to recognize Michael’s thirtieth birthday even though he hadn’t been included in the celebrations; turning thirty was a milestone for anyone. He set aside his disappointment, deciding to go with what appeared to be the theme for the occasion. When he got home tonight, he’d draw Michael together with Captain Astro, using the knick-knacks and other decorations in his bedroom to accurately replicate the superhero.

Clearly torn about accepting his offer, the redheaded waitress shook her head dubiously, muttering, “I don’t know. You have school on Friday, and you wouldn’t get home till after midnight if you work a double shift.”

“Do I have a curfew, Debs?” Justin quipped. “C’mon, you know I’m often up past midnight studying or, uh…” the teen trailed off, not sure how to rescue himself from the sudden conversational pitfall.

Debbie cackled, “It’s no secret, Kiddo. I know just what you get up to. Thin walls, remember.”

“And creaky bedsprings,” the blond concluded ruefully, joining in the merriment at his own expense.

 

“Shit. Sorry I’m late,” Daphne apologized when she dashed into the diner at twenty minutes past eight that evening. “I’m so glad you’re still here.”

Noting his friend looked rather disheveled, Justin teased, “Is your top inside out, Daph?” after she shed her coat.

Daphne hurriedly glanced down, her cheeks flushing. She let her breath out in a whoosh of relief when she discovered her top was on correctly. “You prat!” she exclaimed, punching Justin in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Justin protested, rubbing the spot, before taunting, “I bet I know what you were doing.”

“Fuck, Jus, we aren’t five any longer,” Daphne retorted. “Can it, okay?”

“Alright, I’ll give over,” Justin conceded, “even if I do have the upper hand for once.”

“That’s not the proper order of things,” Daph joked, spreading out her maths textbook and notes, while glancing longingly at her friend’s glass of Coke.

Taking pity on her, Justin shoved his cup toward her, before standing up, fetching a fresh glass for himself, and topping up Daphne’s glass.

“The problems on our midterm still look like Greek to me,” Daphne groaned in disgust, pushing away her D- exam.

Justin sardonically arched his eyebrows but forbore from saying anything. When his friend warned, only half-playfully, “Not a word, Jus, or I swear-” he was glad he hadn’t commented.

“Look,” he offered in a commiserating tone, “I’ve worked up some problems like those in the textbook and on the midterm. I thought we could review them together.”

“Thanks, Jus,” Daphne replied, her gloomy countenance brightening. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’re never going to find out,” the blond gently teased. “Soon you’ll be giving me a run for top grade in the class - like usual.”

“Watch out, Boy Wonder,” the girl jested.

Justin grinned in response, much preferring that nickname from his bestie.

Daphne concentrated on solving calculus equations for nearly two hours, with Justin providing suggestions when she got stuck. He also supplied her with more soda and a couple lemon bars, attesting, “Here. These’ll keep your neurons firing.”

Massaging her eyes, the other student finally shut her book with a thud, mumbling sarcastically, “Wow. Maybe I’ll manage a C on Friday’s revision test.”

“Why don’t you study some more tomorrow night and send me a text if you get stuck?” Justin recommended. “I’ll be working a double shift but will get back to you as soon as I can.”

“A double shift?” Daphne echoed. “How’re you gonna function on Friday?”

“It’s not like I’ve never pulled an all-nighter,” Justin defended himself. “I’m pretty sure I’ll get at least six hours of sleep anyroad, so I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

His friend looked at him contemplatively, drolling, “It’s true that you do have a bushy tail.”

“Daph!” Justin spluttered in protest.

The two friends giggled so hard that Justin got the hiccups. When he gulped from his Coke to try and stifle them, he ended up snorting soda out his nose, which set the friends off all over again.

Once their laughter had finally tapered off, Daph probed, “You really aren’t at all worried about the revision exam, huh?” Sighing, she admitted, “Not that I think eight or nine hours of sleep would make a whit difference for me.”

“I do want to be alert enough to print the solutions to the test questions as neatly as possible,” the young man acknowledged. “Although, if he really wants - and he undoubtedly will - Dixon will make some excuse to knock off a few points, even if I again solve all the problems correctly.”

“Wanker,” Daphne muttered angrily, with Justin nodding vehemently in agreement. “Wait,” she suggested, “maybe you could practice writing like a computer. Then your answers would be completely indisputable.”

“Great idea!” Justin enthused. “Wanna manufacture an hour for me to try that?”

“Hey, you’re the one complaining about a surfeit of sleep,” Daphne jested. “So I’ve solved two problems for you.

“I could really use your input,” Justin changed the subject. “When I was cleaning out the attic with Vic, I discovered an autographed Babe Ruth baseball card in mint condition, which - if you can believe it - is worth thousands of dollars.”

“You’re shitting me, right?” Daph interrupted. “Thousands?”

“Like three or four thousand,” Justin confirmed, “maybe upwards of ten thousand. Anyway, both Deb and Vic insisted it was my ‘finder’s fee’ for helping clean the attic; they wouldn’t let me refuse it.”

After gaping at her friend for a few moments, Daph asked, “So, why do you need my input? Aren’t you gonna use it to pay down your debt to Brian?”

“That’s what I should do,” the blond confirmed, “but I’m torn. I’d really like to give it to Molly for Christmas. She’d love it and I’d be sticking it to my ‘sperm donor’ by gifting her with something as valuable as the signed baseball Craig gave her for her birthday.”

“I don’t know, Jus,” his friend hedged, “that would put a heckuva dent in what you owe Brian.”

“Fuck. I know,” Justin agreed. “At least I don’t have to decide right now, since it’s a hot ticket item. After I get it authenticated, I can sell it on eBay shortly before Christmas, if that’s what I decide to do.”

“Here,” Harry plunked two plates loaded with kebabs and a rice-veggie mixture down in front of them. “Fahad says you two need to eat something more substantial than lemon bars.”

Right on cue, Justin’s stomach rumbled, causing both Daphne and Harry to laugh.

“What?” he protested. “I have it on good authority that I’m a growing boy.”

“Yeah, sure. You’re sitting on what you’re growing.” joked Harry.

“You’re just envious of my fabulous ass,” Justin retorted, scooping up a forkful of rice.

“Since you’re my bestie, you really should share,” Daph proposed. “Glenn wouldn’t mind if I had a bit more up top.”

Justin scrunched up his nose, pleading, “C’mon, no indelicate topics while I’m eating.”

Harry concurred, “Righto. Dicks, yes. Tits, no.”

“Sure,” Daph amiably consented. “After all, I like dick too.”

While the boys chuckled, she asked, “What am I eating, anyhow?”

“Lamb kebab and . . . What’s the rice thingy called again?” Harry shouted in the direction of the kitchen.

“ _Baghali polo_ ,” Fahad replied, sticking his head through the hatch, his long-suffering tone suggesting he’d answered the question many times that evening. “Rice with dill and fava beans. It’s a traditional Iranian dish.”

“Mmm,” Justin hummed contentedly twenty minutes later, slouching down and rubbing his stomach.

An equally replete Daphne mumbled, “Yummy,” leaning her head against the top of the banquette.

Since the diner was filling up with queers who’d be hitting the clubs within the hour, Justin didn’t want to flag down Harry or Kiki to clear their table. Forcing himself to his feet, he suggested,“Lemme take these dishes to the kitchen, and then I’ll give you a pop quiz.”

“Ugh,” Daph halfheartedly demurred. “Anything that improves my calc grade _is_ a good idea, though.”

Thirty minutes and a lot of head-scratching later, Daph shoved the ‘quiz’ across the table to Justin, wincing as he noted where she’d gone wrong.

“Shove over,” the blond ordered, standing up and sliding in next to his friend, painstakingly going over each problem with her.

Resting her head on his shoulder, she mourned, “Fuck, that would barely earn me a C.”

“Daph,” Justin remonstrated, “a C/C- is a whole grade or more better than your D- on the midterm exam.”

“True,” Daph sighed, “but I want to raise my grade for the class to at least a B.”

“Let’s make these study sessions a regular thing,” Justin proposed, “and by the time finals roll around, you’ll have a good shot at doing exactly that.” He chided playfully, “You will have to cut back on your ‘Glenn time’, though.

“Can do,” Daphne responded. “I mean, I really like him, but I’m not sure he’s the one, so I’m not letting him past second base.”

“Ehm,” Justin muttered noncommittally, stroking her head in commiseration.

“Jus, do you think you-” she began, only to be cut off by the boisterous arrival of the boys, Emmett playfully pushing Michael as they laughed uproariously at some joke, Ted and Brian lagging behind.

As he passed them, Michael griped, “Hop to it, Boy Wonder. We need service.”

Justin gritted his teeth at Michael’s automatic assumption that he was on duty so late at night, even though the man could see Harry and Kiki bustling around. It was almost enough to make him rethink creating a sketch for the pissant’s birthday.

“Relax, Mikey,” Brian commanded, glancing at the textbooks strewn across the table before pushing the man into the neighboring booth and sliding in next to him. “The kid’s just studying with his little friend.”

Horrified that his attitude toward the teen could almost be construed as fond, Brian looked toward the back of the diner, seemingly tracking a tall, tattooed bloke, who had just emerged from the bathroom. He hadn’t expected to encounter the irresponsible teen at the diner at such a late hour and didn’t want to contend with him now. Tired of having Justin invade his dreams, he’d convinced himself that if he didn’t see the careless muppet for awhile, he would finally relegate him to former trick status. That would never work, though, if the kid kept popping up at the diner at all hours.

“Yo, Harry!” Emmett interrupted Brian’s dark musings, calling out as the waiter rushed past their table with an armload of plates, “What’s the special tonight?”

“Read the chalkboard,” Harry threw over his shoulder.

“You’ve gotta try the _baghali polo_ ,” Justin enthused, pronouncing the name of the dish perfectly.

“‘Bug alley?” Emmett’s brow furrowed in bemusement.

“Ew, I don’t eat insects,” Michael claimed, his mouth screwing up in disgust.

Brian rolled his eyes. When he caught Ted doing the same, they shared a smirk at the way Michael had jumped to that conclusion.

“Not _bug_ ,” Daphne enunciated, her tone indicating she thought Michael was a moron. “The first syllable of ‘baghali polo’ is pronounced _buh_.”

“Still sounds like ‘bug’ to me,” Michael muttered sullenly.

“Uh, what’s in it?” Emmett inquired, rubbing his hands together. “I love discovering a new culinary delight.”

“Try the backroom later tonight,” Brian recommended. “The ‘delights’ on offer there surpass anything at the diner.”

Ignoring the brunet’s interruption, Justin explained, “Dill and fava beans mixed with rice.”

“And the accompanying lamb kebab is to die for,” Daphne added.

“Mhmm,” Justin agreed, conjecturing, “maybe I could fit in another serving…”

“No way,” Daph protested, with the blond immediately countering, “Yes, way.”

“Show me how to work this equation once more,” the girl insisted, drawing Justin’s attention back to the impromptu quiz.

 

Half an hour later, Brian polished off the final bite of an indisputably delicious helping of rice. He’d been annoyed at Michael for carping on and on about the ‘buggy rice’, so he’d decided to order some for himself, rationalizing that the carbohydrates from the rice would be more than offset by the healthful benefits of the beans. He’d largely tuned out the inane chatter of his friend, surveying the fags in the diner for his first prospect of the night, when he suddenly heard Daphne’s voice rise as she warned Justin to watch out for ‘that crazy Hobbs fucker because he might hurt you the next time’.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Brian inquired sharply.

“Huh?” Michael’s head swiveled toward his friend.

“Not you. Her.” Brian pointed at Daphne.

“Daph!” Justin hissed, trying to shush his friend, but she didn’t listen.

“That homophobic jock is out of control,” she furiously remonstrated. “What’s he going to do next time?” she worried, reaching out and touching Justin’s cheekbone, above which the black eye from yesterday’s altercation could be seen through the greasepaint.

Shit! Justin berated himself. He’d entirely forgotten about touching up the makeup before leaving school. Daph knew about it, of course, but he hadn’t wanted it to be visible to everyone in its multihued glory.

While he was regretting not taking Frau Rose up on her offer to carry the concealer with him, Daphne continued her diatribe. “I mean, he shoved you around yesterday . . .”

“Fuck, Daph, I can take care of myself,“ Justin interjected, not wanting to seem like a helpless weenie.

“Jus,” his bestie argued, “there’s no way you can take on two or more of those jocks at once. And if he catches you unawares, Hobbs will kick the shit out of you at the very least. Yesterday, he roughed you up just because you defended that scrawny frosh he and his cohort were bullying.”

“Baby?” Emmett had twisted around on the bench and was craning his neck to look at Justin more closely.

As Em examined his face, Daphne concluded, “The day before, he torched your locker. I repeat, what’s next?”

Brian’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the back of the blond’s head. He refrained from commenting, but his fingertips began to drum nervously against the tabletop as he contemplated what might befall the stubborn little fucker.

“Ah, the memories,” Ted reminisced. “Getting the shit kicked out of you on the playground.”

“Having lit matches thrown at you in the locker room,” Emmett recalled sadly.

“Yeah, let the good times roll,” Michael moaned, his shoulders hunching.  “Spat on, tripped, punched... it was never-ending. Until Brian came along, anyhow.”

“I don’t suppose anything like this ever happened to you, Brian?” Daphne speculated.

Brian wasn’t all that keen on sharing - especially with half the diner avidly listening - but, for some reason, it didn’t feel right to pretend he’d never been subjected to bullying. “Hmm,” he mused, “there was the time a brawny, straight football jock manhandled me to the toilet, dunked my head, and held me there for what felt like forever.”

That caused Justin to turn around and gawk at him. “What did you do?” he asked, his eyes wide with shock, the shiner making him look like a lopsided racoon.

The vindictive glee he’d experienced at the time swelled up in Brian again as he divulged, “I followed the fucker to his locker, with my wet hair dripping all over the floor. After he unlocked it, he braced his hand against the open edge of the locker, too busy yukking it up with his buddies to even see me. I slammed the door so hard it broke three of his fingers.”

A roar of approval from the fags in the diner greeted that announcement, with Daphne breathing out in awe, “Holy shit. Did you get suspended?

“Natch,” Brian shrugged, “but it was well worth it, since it was the end of the season for him.”

“Baby,” Em cautioned, “that may not be the best example of how you should proceed.”

“Why not?” Justin retorted, mightily tempted to do the same to Hobbs. “All I’ve done to stand up for myself so far is talk, and that hasn’t changed things one iota.”

“You are kinda mouthy,” Daph mumbled. “Maybe it would be better if you toned it down a little.”

“What the fuck!” Justin exclaimed, feeling betrayed by the one friend he’d always been able to count on.

“You know I’m on your side,” Daphne assured him, pleading, “I just want you safe, not dead in an alley somewhere. With the administration at St. James turning a blind eye, I’m really freaked out that could happen.”

“Yeah, sometimes you just have to keep your head down,” Michael interjected. “I can’t come out at the Big Q, or it might cost me my job. So, you know, maybe you should go with the flow at school.”

“Go with the flow?” Justin reiterated. “Uh, you do realize I’m out at school, right, Michael?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, I was in Brian’s ‘faggot-painted’ jeep that morning,” a flustered Michael stammered. “But I don’t want you to end up dead either, so maybe you should, you know, keep a low profile.”

“I don’t know,” Ted reflected. “That hasn’t done much good so far. What’d the police say when you reported the locker incident to them?”

Justin replied, “Uh, I didn’t report it.” He was still a little baffled that everyone was taking the torched locker so seriously, while he mainly thought of doing without a locker as a hassle. “Um, no one was hurt,” he offered hesitantly.

“But you could have been burned,” Emmett ventured. “What would you do, Baby, if it were so bad that you could never draw again? I think Teddy’s right. If the school won’t do anything, you should go to the police.”

“That’ll only make matters worse,” Justin insisted. “Hobbs and the homophobic teachers that support him will torment me even more.”

“If that’s the way you feel about it, then just do what Mikey said and keep your head down,” Brian advised. “You’ve only got, what, six more months in that hellhole?”

“So I should just ignore it if either I or someone else is being tormented?” Justin fumed. “That’s hardly what you did.”

The brunet did his best to hide the smirk that wanted to steal over his face. Now that Brian was making him _think_ , perhaps Justin would see sense and report the bullying to the police. The master manipulator reassured himself that he was only stepping in to keep Deb off his case; it wasn’t because he _cared_ about the blond. He actually admired Justin for behaving as he would have done in the same situation. It the twat didn’t take action, Brian would have to put a bug into Horvath’s ear the next time he talked to the detective. For a copper, he seemed like a decent enough bloke, and that partner of his could certainly intimidate anyone.

Once the conversation about bullying had finally eased off, Emmett returned from a trip to the kitchen with an ice pack. He sat down next to Justin and promptly applied the compress to the blond’s eye, with Justin flinching and complaining, “Fuck that’s cold.”

“Don’t worry. It _won’t_ heat up,” Em joked, “but it _will_ reduce the swelling.”

Chuckling at the lube humor, Justin noted ruefully, “It’s good that the diner patrons focus more on my gorgeous ass than on my pretty face; otherwise, I’d lose out on tips, big time.”

After glancing downward, Em patted the blond’s thigh, joshing, “No worries, Sweetie.”

“Hey,” Justin beamed at Emmett and Daphne, “did I tell you I’ve already gotten a pay rise?”

“Wow. That’s the kind of job I need,” joked Daph, “one where I get an increase after working less than two weeks.”

“It’s not that big an increase,” the blond clarified, “but Debs insisted on giving me the increase because I’ve been a server as well as a busboy from day one.”

“That’s wonderful, Baby!” the tall queen enthused, throwing his arms around Justin and kissing him on the mouth.

None of the trio noticed Brian frowning and Michael glowering, albeit for different reasons, in the booth behind them.

“Fuck, Brian, that kid should be in prison for stealing from you,” Michael pouted, “not getting more money. It’s not like he does much work anyway, just standing around and gabbing with the customers.”

“While the brat _was_ careless and inconsiderate,” Brian drily allowed, “he didn’t actually burgle the loft himself, Michael.”

“You never know; he might have tipped the thieves off,” Michael groused. “In any case, he should be handing all his wages over to you.”

Brian dissolved in laughter. He just couldn’t help it - as if the lad’s salary would be a drop in the bucket compared to the value of the goods that had been stolen.

“Yeah, maybe that would pay for one sleeve of his Armani jacket,” Ted commented wryly, gesturing toward the black leather garment, which Brian had slung over the top of the banquette.

In the other booth, Daph glanced out the window, muttering, “Shit!” when she noticed the snow coming down more heavily.

“Everything okay?” Em asked, lifting his head from the caricature of Michael eating ‘bug rice’ - each kernel shaped into a different insect - that Justin was sketching in margins of the girl’s notebook. Michael was just about to bite the head off a weevil.

“Oh, yeah,” Daphne sighed deeply. “I just hate driving in snow and ice. I haven’t had much practice in these conditions, so I’m always afraid I’m going to skid off the road and mow someone down. That’s why I haven’t been giving you rides, Jus,” she apologized. “I even had Glenn drop me off earlier.”

“No biggie,” the blond replied. “I’ve got the buses completely sussed out - so much so that I’ve manufactured an extra hour in the morning to study,” he jested.

“In the morning?” Daph queried, her eyebrows rising almost to her hairline. “Since when are you an early bird?” The astonished expression still on her face, she pulled out her mobile and dialed a number, soon requesting, “Hey, mom, can you come pick me up at the diner?”

“I must want that worm,” Justin quipped, quickly adding a couple of the squirmy invertebrates to the rice cartoon. It wasn’t as if Michael could distinguish between insects and worms anyway, he mused.

“Justin!” Daph protested as she  got off the phone and finally looked at her friend’s doodle. “I don’t want to look at _that_ every day.”

Emmett and Justin started giggling when they realized she was incensed by Michael’s face, not the buggy rice.

When her mom pulled up in front of the eatery twenty minutes later, Daph bundled herself into a down jacket, wrapped a long scarf around her neck multiple times, and inserted her hands into gloves.

“Jesus, Daph,” Justin chuckled, “it’s only three steps from the door to your mom’s car.”

“I’m still adjusting to winter having arrived so suddenly,” his bestie protested. “I can’t believe we had temperatures in the seventies and eighties not two weeks ago. It was still blissfully warm the day you started working at the diner, in fact.”

“That’s what happens when the ‘sunshine’ moves indoors,” Emmett teased, holding the door open for the young woman.

“Oh, did you want us to give you a ride?” Daph asked, one foot already out the door.

“Heck, no,” Justin replied, donning his jacket and looping his rucksack over his shoulder. “A ride for a few blocks is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Brr,” Daph retorted, waving goodbye as a blast of icy air hit her in the face.

“See ya,” Justin kissed Emmett on the cheek and followed her out the door, trotting toward Deb’s house. He didn’t feel the cold, a warm glow enveloping him at having spent the evening with his closest friend; he was looking forward to their future study sessions. He was surprised to realize that seeing Brian hadn’t fazed him; instead it had felt like they might - at some point - become friends. If they couldn’t be lovers, Justin definitely wanted the man’s friendship...

 

Brian had pulled a muscle on the underside of his right foot. If you’d asked him how he had managed that, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you, but there it was - a sharp pain every time he made a step. He reckoned it also didn’t help that he refused to even slightly limp and thus was further aggravating the injury as he walked. Fucking new shoes, he raged quietly as he slipped out of his Zegnas after arriving at the loft; it must’ve been the stupid heel that had screwed him over.

The brunet padded his way across his polished floor towards the bedroom, carefully limping on his right leg. Flopping down on his bed, he sighed. He was still reeling a little bit from what he had found out about Justin’s situation at school and was in some desperate need of relaxation. Normally, he would just go on a pull to Babylon or to the Baths, but since he was currently a proper gimp, he couldn’t do that. Instead of finding a trick to fuck, he decided to pull out his bottle of lube and jerk off to one of his favourite fantasies.

He remembered a similar evening not that long ago - he had overdone it at the gym that day and had pulled a muscle in his neck during push-ups. When he’d come home, he hadn’t had the will to go out but, thankfully, Justin had been at the loft to soothe his aches.

He remembered how frustrated with himself he had been, and how Justin had made it all better.

They had started off lying on their sides in their bed, naked and making out like teenagers. Justin was running his artistic hands all over Brian, massaging his shoulders lightly before sliding his hands south, over his butt.

Brian had hmmed in contentment, pressing himself closer to the blond. He pushed his tongue deeper into Justin’s mouth, receiving a pat on the bum for his troubles.

“Stop that,” he had grunted, lips still mashed to Justin’s.

The younger man grinned, pulling away slightly. “What was that?”

“I said,” he had repeated, enunciating carefully “stop that.”

Justin just patted him again. “What, this?” And again. “Are you sure?” And again. “Do you really want me to stop this?”

The pats hadn’t really been hard enough to be called spanking but they were enough for his arse to start itching slightly. “Yes I do,” he had said breathlessly, though he knew Justin could feel how hard he was against the teenager’s thigh.

Justin had chuckled, rolling them over, so Brian was on top with his legs on either side of the blond’s hips. He’d received another series of pats, a little harder this time, and his dick twitched again.

“I think you’re getting off on it,” Justin had whispered to him, hands rubbing his pink arsecheeks.

“And I think you’re getting really cocky,” Brian countered, squirming slightly in his lover’s lap.

“Oh, I’m gonna get  _cocky_ ,” the blond had teased, wiggling his eyebrows, causing Brian to burst out in laughter.

“That was a horrible pun, Sunshine,” he retorted.

Justin had giggled prettily, patting him again. “You want to be on top?” he asked him, a few of his fingers teasing at Brian’s crack.

The brunet stud had raised his eyebrows. “What do you think?” he challenged, pressing his arse into Justin’s crotch.

“I think,” the blond had whispered hotly in his ear, “that you are going to ride me until we both come.”

Brian would deny it till his dying day, but he might’ve whimpered at those words coming out of his lover’s dirty mouth. “Yeah?” he’d asked, voice tight with arousal.

Justin had pressed his fingers against his hole in answer, causing Brian to choke on his spit. “Justin,” he breathed out, pressing his butt back to increase the pressure of the blond’s fingertips.

“Come on, Brian,” his lover had encouraged him, using his right hand to fumble with the bedside drawer and pull out their bottle of lube. “You ready?”

Brian hmmed in agreement.

Justin’s slicked-up fingers had pressed against his entrance, massaging the rim with even pressure, and Brian wasn't able to help himself, again pressing back against them. The blond had waited for him to wiggle a few more times before finally pushing his forefinger in, sliding it in as far as it would go.

The older man had felt a shiver run up his spine, and when that nimble finger brushed against his prostate, heat had pooled in his stomach. “Justin,” he moaned.

“I know, Bri,” his lover had soothed him, one hand caressing his back, the other pumping the digit in and out of his entrance. “More?”

Brian hadn’t bothered to speak, just nodding his head, drops of hot sweat flying at the movement. He was rewarded by Justin’s middle finger as the blond started loosening his hole by scissoring the slick fingers inside of him. The occasional brush against his sweet spot had kept the heat in his stomach pulsing, the feeling thick and heavy as molten lava.

He hadn’t even registered the third finger at first, because he had been distracted by Justin’s mouth sucking at the skin right behind his ear. “No mark,” he managed to whimper, vaguely remembering he had a client presentation the next day. Justin’s only reaction had been to suck harder.

It hadn’t taken long for the blond to declare him ready, knowing from experience that Brian liked to feel the stretch when Justin entered him. The stud had helped his lover slide a condom over his thick hardness and then, barely waiting for Justin to lube himself up, he moved to sit over it. He had slid down the engorged length with a long hiss of breath, watching the younger man’s blissed-out face and plump lips. He remembered being determined to ride Justin to completion and then have the teenager blow him.

Once he was fully seated, he had immediately lifted himself up again - not giving either of them any time to adjust to the penetration. His slender thighs had strained with the effort, and Brian found himself thankful that his earlier disastrous workout at the gym had concentrated on his upper body muscles and not on his legs; otherwise, he’d be too tired to do this.

He’d huffed with the effort as he set up a regular rhythm, riding Justin slow and hard. He was able to feel each and every inch of his lover’s shaft sliding in and out of him, the big head teasing his prostate at every pass. “Jus,” he’d grunted, closing his eyes briefly in concentration - he didn’t want to come too soon.

Soon, Justin’s hands had found his thighs, caressing the straining muscles lightly. Brian had thought about Justin’s own muscular thighs and how the teen could ride him forever before tiring, while Brian was already feeling the strain five minutes later. He had decided to pick up the pace, refusing to admit he was running out of steam, which earned him a deep grunt of pleasure from Justin.

“Jesus, Brian,” the blond had groaned, voice raspy and breathless.

The brunet chuckled, grinding down forcefully. He’d then felt Justin slide his hands up his thighs all the way to his arse and squeeze, causing him to buckle. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned out, feeling the hot tingle spread from his centre.

“You close?” Justin had questioned, teasing at Brian’s crack.

The brunet hmmed in response, enjoying the way his lover had rubbed at the tight ring of muscles around his filled-up opening. The tingles had almost reached the top of his spine at that point, and his thigh muscles were screaming with exertion.

“I think you can take a little more,” his blond lover had murmured and before Brian could’ve realised what that meant, Justin pressed a forefinger inside of Brian, right alongside his cock.

“Oooh!” he’d yelled out, left gasping at the new stretch. He had never before had anything so big inside of him and, quite honestly, it surprised him how nice it felt. Justin had been watching his face intently, presumably for any signs of discomfort.

Brian wasn't in any pain though - well, not in any bad kind of pain - as the tingling feeling had shot to his toes and fingertips. “I’m coming,” he’d warned Justin as he felt his hole spasming around the teenager’s appendages and his cock jerking in preparation for a mind-blowing orgasm.

“Me too,” the blond breathed out, giving Brian’s shaft a few tugs.

They had come almost simultaneously, Brian spurting out a second or two before Justin but not caring in the least, both calling each other’s names.

Now, as Brian lay alone in his bed, slick fingers sliding in and out of his own tight hole, his orgasm crept up on him unexpectedly. He grunted loudly, biting his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything, and his whole body jerked. Not even the sharp pain in the sole of his right foot as his toes curled could ruin his high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.” = Seize the day, trust as little as possible in tomorrow. (Horace)


	15. Chapter 15

When he awakened well before the alarm went off in the morning, Justin felt surprisingly invigorated, even though he’d had less than five hours of sleep. He’d worked on the sketch for Michael’s birthday for nearly half an hour, finally hitting the hay just before one o’clock.

Climbing into the tub-style shower, he sudsed up with soap, lazily stroking his cock as he whistled the refrain to ‘Baby Love’. The plastic shower curtain flapped madly around him, sticking to his legs, and he found himself missing the oversized, glassed-in shower in the loft. Justin braced one foot on the rim of the tub, reaching down to finger his hole with the hand not engaged with his dick, recalling the first time he’d ever had shower sex with Brian. That still counted as one of the most mind-blowing sexual experiences he’d ever had.

Justin’s whistling was interrupted by a grunt of frustration when he couldn’t penetrate as deeply as he wanted. No question, he was going to have to invest in a dildo as soon as he got his first paycheck; it was a necessity for a gay man.

Giving up on anal penetration for the moment, the blond settled for imagining Brian slowly feeding his dick into his ass, increasing the tempo once the randy teen was ready. “Fuck, yeah,” he muttered, slowly sliding his hand upward along his torso, until it encountered his nipple ring. While one hand practically flew up and down his shaft, the other tugged at the ring, the small jolt of pain tipping him over the edge.

“Aaaah,” he released a long, guttural moan along with copious streams of jizz, before collapsing against the tiled wall.

Once he was able to stand upright again, Justin quickly finished his ablutions and got dressed, before bopping down the stairs to grab a bowl of cereal, a bright grin on his face.

“Wanna share?” Vic playfully leered from his seat at the kitchen table. “That sounded like fun.”

The mortified teenager turned scarlet as he stared at the older man. “Uh, fuck, I, uh, didn’t mean to be so loud,” he stammered.

“Really, I enjoyed it,” Vic insisted. “Vicarious sex works wonders.”

“I’ll say,” Debbie concurred, walking into the kitchen and waving her hand in front of her face. “You’re too hot to handle, Sunshine.”

“Ehm,” Justin squeaked out, deciding to forgo the cereal. Freezing while he waited for the bus suddenly sounded more pleasant than breakfast.

 

Meanwhile, Brian also forewent breakfast. He, of course, had different reasons than embarrassment - first and foremost being that there was nothing to eat at the loft. Not having the time to stop by the diner before work, Brian decided to just pour some coffee down his throat and maybe snag a piece of Godiva chocolate from Cynthia’s desk.

And he would’ve done exactly that had his wonderful assistant not disappointed him and actually had some chocolates left.

Brian raised his eyebrows at the empty cream-coloured box. “Really? When I was leaving yesterday, you still had about a third left.”

Cynthia shrugged. “First of all,” she began, voice sassy, “there was hardly half a dozen. Second of all, I had to sweeten up Bethany from accounting so she would let me use her precious smoothie maker.”

“What’s wrong with the one I gave you for your birthday?” the brunet stud asked incredulously. “That was barely three months ago!”

“Yeah, about that…” Cynthia drawled. “I might’ve bought new shoes instead with the check you gave me.”

Brian gaped. “Why would you-” he stopped himself. “Do you realise that your ill-timed fancy for a pair of shoes cost me my only breakfast today?” He looked at his watch. “I’m already late just talking to you here.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “No you’re not,” she told him. “You still have ten minutes; otherwise, I’d already be shooing you out of here.”

Brian sighed. “I need to go get ready then,” he told his blonde friend, striding determinedly into his office. He had to check over all the boards for his presentation and take a highlighter to all the key points in his notes, so he wouldn’t forget anything. Not that he really needed the notes, he only kept them in case the unthinkable happened and he lost track of the presentation.

A knock sounded at his door when he was about five minutes in, Cynthia poking her head inside. “I have an avocado sandwich for you,” she said. “Can you eat it in the next three minutes?”

“Can I?” Brian inquired sardonically. He tilted his head forward slightly and began feeding the foot-long, submarine-style sandwich into his mouth, humming appreciatively as if it were an actual cock.

Cynthia stared at him in bug-eyed disbelief as he swallowed down seven inches, working his way toward eight.

C’mon, Brian, encouraged himself, if I can deep throat Justin’s thick dick, I can handle this. On that appetizing thought, he surged past eight inches, almost reaching nine. At that point, however, he simply had to give up, the avocado beginning to squirt out the sides of his mouth and nearly plopping onto his slacks.

Leaning forward, he let the green stuff dribble onto his leather desk blotter, before hastily wiping it clean with a napkin. “Dammit,” he muttered, disappointed by his paltry effort. That must’ve happened because he hadn’t had enough practice lately.

“Ouch!” Cynthia grinned. “Some poor bloke just ended up with an awfully short weiner. “Chop, chop now. Finish off the rest and be in the conference room in four.”

Brian nodded, his mouth too full to reply verbally, and shooed his PA out with a flap of his hand. He made a mental note to check himself in his bathroom mirror for any avocado stains before leaving. Swallowing what he had in his mouth, he cleared his throat before stuffing in the rest of the sandwich.

The next two hours were spent charming his clients into buying an ad that was vastly different, though infinitely better, than what they had asked for. They hadn’t been very receptive in the beginning, but the longer they were under Brian’s persuasive influence, the better they felt about the new advertisement. In the end, the adman left the conference with a signed contract, a self-satisfied smirk on his face and an adrenaline-induced hard-on in his pants. He took care of the latter in his private bathroom with a bit of lube and a touch of fantasy. 

 

At the library, before his calculus class, Justin worked some more on the drawing for Michael. When Frau Rose looked over his shoulder with interest sparkling in her eyes, Justin informed her that he planned to give the sketch to a friend - Justin used ‘friend’ very loosely in this instance, although the librarian didn’t need to know that - for his thirtieth birthday. 

The librarian, who apparently had a hidden passion for graphic novels, bombarded the bemused teen with all sorts of questions. “What’s his superpower? His kryptonite? His day job? Who does he protect?”

“His name’s Captain Astro,” Justin identified the dude, “but that’s the extent of my knowledge, other than that he’s rumored to be gay.”

His favorite teacher looked at him intently at that news, although she didn’t directly address the topic, instead commenting that he sounded like quite the interesting person. When she powered up her computer and started searching for information on the Internet, Justin felt a bit like a fraud. Sure, he was drawing the sketch - and he was quite certain Michael would like it - but it had been a superficial effort until now.

Fortunately, based on Frau Rose’s research and input, Justin was able to draw a much more complex, multidimensional character, one whose shoulders slumped a bit from the burdens he was carrying but who was steadfast in defending the denizens of Liberty Avenue. The drawing depicted Michael standing right outside the entrance to the Liberty Diner, Captain Astro on one side and Brian on the other, the three men with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

As he made his way over to Daphne in their creative writing class later that morning, Justin couldn’t stop chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” the girl probed, drilling Justin in the shoulder with her pencil.

“Mr Sullivan returned our Latin midterm projects at the end of class today,” Justin related. “There was this lengthy, complimentary remark penned at the top of the page, waxing lyrical about the ‘depth’ of my poem, going on about how I had hidden meaning behind the words of praise about the man’s beauty in the ode.” A spate of giggles escaped before Justin sobered up enough to finish, “How I was clearly writing about inner beauty and the man’s character.”

Daphne rolled her eyes at her friend, “Ha. Ha. Ha. I can hardly restrain my laughter, that’s so darned funny.”

“The joke is that my poem wasn’t ‘deep’ at all,” Justin elucidated, chuckling some more. “When I formulated it, all I could think about was Brian’s smooth skin, silky hair, and big cock.”

At that explanation, Daphne also burst out laughing, the two friends barely daring to look at each other for the remainder of the class, lest they set each other off again.

Come lunchtime, after scarfing down a sandwich he’d made at Debs’, thankful that he could pass on the rubbery-looking pasta, Justin continued working on the sketch while chatting with Daphne.

“Captain Astro’s way more cool than I would have expected,” his friend proclaimed.

“He kinda is,” Justin agreed. “Thank fuck Frau Rose quizzed me about him and did some research.”

“Aren’t you going to a lot of trouble for Michael?” Daphne wondered. “The guy’s such a dweeb.”

“True, but I shouldn’t use that as an excuse to produce subpar work,” Justin replied. “Even though he’s a nimrod, it  _ is _ his thirtieth - that’s special for anyone. Mainly, though, I’m doing this because he’s Deb’s son; she’s been so good to me, and Michael’s part of her family, so . . .” he trailed off.

“There, what do you think?” he asked ten minutes later, turning the sketch so that it faced Daphne.

“Fuck. Brian’s super hot,” the girl proclaimed, lasciviously eying the brunet, whom Justin had clad in a skintight, black clubbing outfit. “Why’s he smirking like that?” she inquired, after studying the drawing more closely.

“Because he’s squeezing Captain Astro’s ass with his right hand,” Justin explained. “See how his arm has dropped down from Michael’s shoulder?”

The two friends laughed uproariously at the typical Brian behavior that Justin had worked into the sketch, speculating as to whether the brunet or anyone else would twig to it.

 

That evening, Brian prowled through the crowd in his loft, as everyone waited for the birthday boy to arrive after his shift at the Big Q. The brunet was disappointed when he couldn’t espy a single fuckable trick with whom he could while away ten or fifteen minutes. Well, the Captain Astro lookalike would do in a pinch, but it wouldn’t be right to have the birthday boy walk in on him fucking the man, not before the guy had performed his striptease, anyroad.

Except for him, and possibly the Astro stripper, however, Michael’s friends were clearly a bunch of pathetic losers. In the corner by his computer, a pimply fatso - who the fuck had invited him? - was raving about how amazing it was to have eye candy like Michael and Emmett for neighbors. Certain the bloke must be blind in one eye and nearsighted in the other, Brian hastily backed away, accidentally bumping into Melanie.

That caused the red wine in the glass the bulldyke was holding to slosh onto her Manolos. “Fuck, Brian, watch where you’re going, would’ya?” Melanie griped.

“That’s what I’m doing,” Brian retorted, adroitly stepping behind the lawyer as the fatty glanced in his direction, wishing for the first time that there were ‘less’ of him so that he’d be more effectively shielded by the petite woman. Damn, the troll wasn’t as poorly-sighted as he’d suspected.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Deb queried.

Brian tipped his head toward the fugly toad, which caused Deb, Mel, and Linds to chuckle.

“Are you trying to hide behind Melanie?” Lindsay giggled.

An affronted Brian huffed, “I’m not hiding. I don’t do hiding.”

“Uh-huh.” Debbie snorted.

“Bri, honey, where’s Baby?” Emmett trilled, throwing an arm across the brunet’s shoulders and interrupting their confab.

Christ, was this the way his night was going to go, lurching from one awkward moment to another? Brian wondered. Throwing off the taller man’s arm - with the usual fleeting thought that it was annoying to have the flaming queen outstrip him in any way - he snarled, “Don’t call me Bri.”

“Jesus, Brian,” Mel snarked, “you must have forgotten your panties entirely and caught your dick in the zipper.”

“Where is Justin?” Lindsay repeated Em’s question as she looked around for the blond. “Didn’t you invite him?”

As the redhead started to reply, “He’s work-” she was cut off by Brian.

“Why would I invite him?” the exasperated brunet replied. “I assumed he’d hear about the party from one of you  _ ladies _ ” - he shot a speaking glance at Emmett - “and come.”

“Shit,” Deb muttered. “I just assumed that Sunshine knew about the party when I was talking to him yesterday. He offered to work a double shift so I’d have more time to get ready. Poor kid must’ve thought no one wanted him here.”

Brian rolled his eyes, “He’s not a child, Debs. He shouldn’t need a written invitation to be here. This is hardly a royal wedding.”

“Brian,” Lindsay reproached him, “how can you be so callous? You can’t convince me you no longer care about him, even if you did toss him out.”

“We’re not in a relationship,” Brian growled. “The kid was just bunking at the loft temporarily. If we ever were  _ together _ , we certainly aren’t now.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that,  _ Bri _ ,” Emmett angrily interjected, before stalking away.

In response to the pointed stares from the rest of the group, Brian scowled truculently.

Fortunately, before the conversation could become even more hostile, Emmett yelled, “Quiet, everyone! Ted just texted that Michael’s coming up the stairs.”

Brian had told Michael that Ted would pick him up after work because he’d be busy with a client. Michael had jested that Brian must be providing ‘special services’, which had pissed Brian off - his childhood friend apparently believed he couldn’t get a client any other way. The ad exec had barely managed to set aside his irritation, so he could concentrate on providing a memorable birthday bash for Michael. Now, he let out a relieved sigh that Ted had adequately carried out his task.

The stud couldn’t wait for this shindig to be over and done with. Although Emmett had been surprisingly restrained with the decorations and the carb-laden goodies, the brunet stud couldn’t wait to kick everyone out and reclaim the space for himself - and maybe a trick or two.

Emmett quickly turned out the lights, and everyone hushed, anticipating Michael’s arrival.

“Surprise!” the horde shouted when Michael called out, “Brian?” before sliding open the metal door and stepping over the threshold moments later.

Brian rolled his eyes and muttered, “Whoopdifuckingdoo.” A thirtieth birthday called for a funeral, not a celebration, as far as he was concerned. He nevertheless pasted on a smile and sauntered over to the birthday boy, who was taking everything in with an ear-to-ear grin on his face.

“Shit!” a delighted Michael exclaimed, as his friends took turns hugging and congratulating him. “I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“You weren’t supposed to catch on, Mikey,” Brian drily commented. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a  _ surprise _ .”

“Thanks, Brian!” Michael threw his arms around Brian and snuffled into his burgundy Versace shirt, immediately contradicting his previous statement by asserting, “I knew you wouldn’t abandon me on my birthday.”

Brian did an internal eye-roll. As usual for Mikey, no occasion was complete without Brian. “Don’t get snot on my shirt,” he mocked, hastily motioning David over. It was high time for the doc to take Michael off his hands.

“Oops!” Emmett intervened, handing Michael a handkerchief, into which he promptly blew his nose, the noise resembling that of a foghorn.

“Did ya get it all out, Honey?” Debbie inquired with a hearty laugh.

“Thirty years worth,” Michael jested, making everyone chuckle, even Brian. His self-deprecating sense of humor was one of the things Brian most appreciated about his friend.

When Michael noticed David standing next to Brian, his jaw dropped and he stammered, “Wh… what are you doing here?”

“I’m hoping you’ll give me another chance,” David earnestly offered, an unusually diffident expression on his face. “I shouldn’t have acted as if I know what’s best for you; I can assure you that I  _ do _ respect your opinion.”

Jesus, doc, bare your soul, why don’t you? Brian ruminated, wincing, fleetingly wondering what it was like to feel so strongly about another person that you’d put it all the line like that.

“Of course he’ll give you another chance!” Debbie screeched, shattering the intensity of the moment by squeezing David in her arms and planting a smooch on his neck. She’d obviously been aiming for his cheek, but hadn’t been able to reach quite that high. Her face pressed against the doc’s chest, she turned her head toward Michael, finishing her declaration, “Won’t you, Honey?”

The room erupted in laughter, as a scarlet-faced Michael shrugged, “Well, if my mom approves, what else can I do?”

“Good choice, Sweetie.” Deb patted him on the cheek and moved back so the two men could exchange a kiss.

Brian took the opportunity to sidle over to the liquor cart, pouring himself a healthy draught of Beam. He tossed it back in one go, immediately pouring another. He’d better drink while it was available; there wouldn’t even be dregs left in the bottles by the time this horde of thirsty queers finally departed. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet restocked the really expensive stuff, like the hundred year old Glenlivet.

“Mind if I help myself?” Ted inquired, looking as if he desperately needed a drink.

“Free range . . . this one time, Theodore,” Brian hastily cautioned as Ted filled a glass almost to the brim with Jim Beam Black label.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Ted moaned gratefully. “The whole way here I had to listen to Michael whinge about how the big boss wants him to dress up like a giant chicken for the upcoming holiday. Somehow,” he added wryly, “that’s supposed to attract more customers.”

“Thank fuck we don’t work in retail,” Brian commisserated, tapping his glass against Ted’s.

The two men leaned against the kitchen counter, shoulder to shoulder, watching Emmett guide Michael over to a table, piled high with gifts, which had been placed in front of the bedroom panels.

“Oh, my God, this is totally rad,” Michael gushed. “I can’t believe all of these gifts are for me.”

Next to Brian, Ted snorted, noting, “Talk about being stuck in the eighties.”

Brian couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping, turning his head to share a grin with the accountant. There were times when Ted’s dry wit was absolutely spot on.

While they were laughing, Michael started ripping the paper off the gifts like a kid at Christmas. “Oh, wow, Ma! Thanks!” he effused. “I’ve wanted a Lynda Carter Wonder Woman wristwatch for ages!”

Debbie grinned and shrieked, “You deserve it, Sweetie. You’re the best son ever.”

Rubbing his forehead, Brian pondered how much longer this lovefest - which was not of the type he preferred - would go on. To his surprise, when he glanced to his left, he noticed that Ted also seemed to be attempting to soothe away a burgeoning headache. Fuck, there was something wrong with this picture; Ted was not and never would be his best bud.

“What did you guys get me?” Michael asked as he wrestled with the large box from Ted and Emmett.

“You’re gonna love it!” Em jumped up and down in excitement.

“Here,” David held out an Exacto knife, so that Michael could cut through the packing tape.

“Uh,” a baffled Michael studied the item after pulling it out and setting it on the table, “why would you give me a statue with drooping tits?”

“What the fuck?” Ted exclaimed, pushing away from the counter and forging his way through the crowd. “It’s supposed to be a Captain Astro statue, one of a limited edition of seventy-five.”

When he turned to Emmett, the flamboyant queen threw his hands up in the air. “Don’t look at me, Teddy, you’re the one who pressed ‘buy’,” he absolved himself of blame.

“Yeah,” Ted replied, “after  _ you _ got sidetracked on the website browsing for statues of Priapus.”

Looking sidelong at the statue, Em mused, “Don’t you think it could be a double-penetration toy? Those look kinda like two erect dicks to me.”

Ted reluctantly began laughing, turning to Michael and claiming, “You’ll have to let us know what you think of your new  _ toy _ .”

“The card says this is a representation of Ninepone, an African fertility goddess,” Dr Dave read.

“Michael,” Vic jested, “is there something you haven’t told us? Who got you up the duff?”

“Honey,” Debbie interjected enthusiastically, “I just knew there was a reason you were so keen on baby talk at the last Sunday dinner. Who’re you gonna have it with - Lindsay or Melanie?”

“What? No!” three horrified voices spoke nearly simultaneously, Michael looking like he might faint, while Melanie and Lindsay trod on Vic and Deb’s toes as they backed away.

“Oh, c’mon,” Emmett joshed, “Melanie, you and Michael could play daddy together.”

“No. No. No.” Michael nearly stamped his foot in vexation. “I’m not ready to be a dad.”

Melanie wilted against Lindsay, the blonde looking equally relieved.

“I’m only thirty for fuck’s sake,” Michael concluded.

Brian shifted uneasily, feeling like his friend had punched him in the gut, instantly concerned that he also was too young to be a father. It had taken Lindsay almost a year to badger him into donating his sperm, with Brian acquiescing as long as he’d be a dad in name only. Since Gus had been born, however, he’d become more and more enamored of his son, which had him worried that he was turning into some kind of domesticated Stepford fag.

His dark thoughts were interrupted when Dr Dave stepped aside, revealing the Captain Astro surrogate, who’d been working his way through the mob of guests. “Someone’s here to see you Michael,” the doc advised his newly acquired boyfriend.

Michael’s eyes went wide with wonder, as Captain Astro declared, “I heard it was your birthday, so I thought I’d fly by and bring you something special.” With that, the superhero handed Michael a comic book in a cellophane wrapper.

Gazing back and forth between the comic and the Astro stand-in, Michael spluttered, “This is a first edition of the first appearance of Captain Astro in print. Do you know how much this is worth?”

“Anything for you, Michael,” David stated sincerely.

“You? You got this for me?” Michael asked in amazement. “I thought this must be from Bri-”

Dr Dave cut him off with a thorough kiss, to much hooting and hollering from their audience. When they came up for air, he mouthed ‘Thanks’ at Brian over Michael’s head.

Brian smiled smugly at him in return. Thank fuck that had gone right. It looked like his ‘best friend’ would be both happy and occupied with the good doc for the foreseeable future.

At that moment, however, Michael blanched as he looked toward the open doorway.

Following his gaze, Brian discovered Mikey’s friend from the Big Q had arrived. Fuck, maybe this hadn’t been his brightest idea, he mused, as he walked over to the young woman.

“Come on in,” he invited. “Michael’s just opening his presents.”

“You invited her!” Michael half-shouted as he hurried across the room. “Why?”

“Because she’s your friend, Mikey,” Brian wearily replied. Fuck, this was ruining his efforts to give his friend the best birthday ever - and get him out of Brian’s hair in the process. What had he been thinking when he’d invited whatsername to the party? He suddenly couldn’t remember.

“Mike,” she uttered in a hushed voice so that no one else would overhear them, “I don’t care that you’re gay.”

Michael turned betrayed eyes on his friend. “You told her that, too? It’s no one’s business but mine,” he insisted.

“Michael, I’m not going to out you at work,” whatsherface interrupted. “I’d never do that, even if I didn’t care about you. But you never should have led me on, made me think that you liked me.”

“I do like you, Tracy,” Michael protested, “well, as a friend, anyway.”

Ah, that was the girl’s name, Brian thought. There was a remote chance he might even remember it the next time he saw her. He snorted, probably not.

“Rather than trusting me and being honest, you fooled me into believing you wanted me as your girlfriend,” Tracy hissed, shoving a small, gift-wrapped box into Michael’s hands. “I’m having a hard time seeing you as a friend right now, so I’m just going to go.”

With that, Tracy left the room, clattering down the stairs in her high heels.

“How could you?” an upset Michael asked Brian. “How do I know that she won’t out me to Marley and Andrew? I could lose my job, Brian!”

“Michael,” Brian paused to run a hand through his hair, making it stick up in disarray, “I thought you could use some backup at the Big Q. Tracy’s not going to tell anyone you’re queer, but you’d better mend some fences with her if you would actually like to have a friend at that fucking store.”

Right then, David came up, inquiring, “Who was that, Michael?”

“Just someone from work,” Michael sullenly replied.

“I wish she’d stayed. I would have liked to meet one of your colleagues,” David stated.

“Yes, surely, you want Dr Dave to meet your  _ friend _ from the Big Q,” Brian stressed, before turning on his heel and stalking back to the liquor cart.

“We’re gonna talk more about this,” Michael threatened to Brian’s retreating back.

Brian could hear David cajoling, “Hey, c’mon, don’t be in a bad mood. It sounds like Brian was trying to do you a favor.”

Turning around, the stud observed a clearly unconvinced Michael muttering, “Maybe,” while looking mutinous.

Shit, Brian reflected, he should have known better than to try and do a friend a good turn. It never worked out right.

Brian stationed himself next to the alcohol, knocking back the Beam as David steered Michael toward a chair in the center of the room. “Captain Astro has a special performance planned for you,” the doc loudly informed Michael as well as everyone else.

“Yeah?” Michael asked, his gloomy countenance brightening as ZZ Ward’s ‘Move Like U Stole It’ began streaming through the speakers.

Captain Astro danced out, shimmying and gyrating in front of Michael, as he slowly removed his costume. He circled around the birthday boy, trailing a finger down his torso, popping open a few buttons along the way.

Shouts of, “Take it off!” and “Show me more!” resounded throughout the loft, Emmett sashaying over at one point and grinding up against the Captain, his eyebrows lasciviously waggling.

“Go, Emmylou!” Vic hooted.

Once Astro was down to his black mask and a scarlet jockstrap, which didn’t quite cover his package, he seated himself in Michael’s lap.

Michael’s face was a fiery crimson, but he was enjoying himself immensely if the moans and groans emanating from his mouth were anything to go by.

When the superhero leaned down to claim his mouth in a searing kiss, Michael got so overexcited that he tipped the chair over, spilling both of them to the ground.

“Hands off,” Dr Dave half joked, a possessive gleam in his eyes as he helped Michael to his feet. “He’s mine.”

Brian extended a hand to Captain Astro, who licked his lips as he stared the studly brunet. Tipping his head toward the bedroom, Brian disappeared up the steps moments later.

“Fuck,” Vic sighed, gazing wistfully after the two men as the Captain hastened after Brian. “That used to be me.”

“You’ve still got it, Victor Grassi,” Debbie insisted, laying her head on her brother’s shoulder. “We just need to find the right guy for you.”

Later that evening, the candles on the cake were blown out and the chocolate and peanut butter confection consumed - with the partiers wiping away smears of frosting while incriminating photos were snapped. That was followed by hours of dancing and drinking, before the party finally began to wind down.

“Wait, Michael,  you haven’t opened all your presents,” Emmett noticed, dragging his friend back over to the table, where an unassuming, plain white envelope had been placed, Michael’s name scrawled on top in Brian’s sharp cursive.

After opening it, Michael gave the taller man a hug, muttering, “I’m still pissed at you, but I’m thrilled that we’ll be going to the New York Comic Con togeth-”

“Who, Mikey,” Brian halted his friend’s babbling. “The tickets are for you and Dr Dave.”

“But,” a bewildered Michael replied, “we’ve talked about going there for years. David’s not interested in comics.”

“I am if you are,” David came up behind Michael, wrapping his arms around the younger man.

“You are?” Michael asked, a dazed look in his eyes.

“I am,” Dr Dave assured him.

Brian almost barfed, the moment was so sickeningly sweet.

“I’m off to another job,” Captain Astro interrupted. “See you at Babylon sometime?” he addressed no one in particular while glancing at Brian.

“One time only,” Brian reiterated his infamous policy, to the Captain’s obvious disappointment.

“Hold on just a sec,” Michael requested of Captain Astro, grabbing a piece of thick paper off of a nearby table and unrolling the drawing he’d found earlier than evening amongst the pile of presents. “This is a killer sketch; I’d like a photo with you guys on each side of me, with me holding it.”

Brian glanced down at the drawing as he took his place next to Michael, David raising his camera to take the shot. Fucking blond brat, he thought, his conscience twinging slightly at not having invited the teen to the party. He quickly forgot his misgivings, though, as he eyed the sketch more closely, taking in the details. A habitual smirk on his face, he goosed Captain Astro just as David pressed the shutter button. 

“You’ll have to display the photo and the sketch side by side,” Brian recommended, chuckling as the Captain rubbed his abused posterior.

 

While the party was going on at the loft, Justin and Kiki were being run off their feet at the diner. It had been insanely busy from the moment he’d walked into the diner at five minutes to three o’clock. He’d handed the rolled-up drawing, gaily tied shut with a multicolored ribbon, to Debbie as she was preparing to leave, declaring, “Here, this is for Michael.”

“Thanks, Kiddo,” Deb had bussed him on the cheek. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Justin’d had his doubts, but it wouldn’t have done to mention them to the motherly redhead.

“I swear, all the queers in Pittsburgh have descended on this diner today,” Debbie had stated as she handed her apron to the teen for him to hang up. “You’d think there was no other place to eat in the city.” Scanning the diner filled with customers, some of whom were trying to flag her down, she’d offered, “Maybe I should stay…”

“What’s the point of Mr. Süc excusing me from my IT class if you stay?” Justin had asked, pushing her toward the door. “Get going. Kiks and I can handle it.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Debbie had allowed, calling over her shoulder as she’d rushed out the door, “The crowd has to thin out soon.”

That had turned out to be a false prophecy as more and more diners had squeezed into the diner in the next few hours.

Now it was nine o’clock and the joint was as busy as ever. Kiki moaned, “Holy cow,” as she paused behind the cash register, removing one aching foot from her high-heeled shoe and kneading it. “I’ve never seen it so busy on a Thursday night. It’s almost enough to make me wish I were celebrating with that pipsqueak, even if he does get on my nerves.”

“The half of Liberty Avenue that’s not at Michael’s knees-up must be here at the diner,” Justin diplomatically replied, ignoring her depreciatory remark about Michael, even if he did agree with the tranny.

“That’s a fair assessment, Sherlock,” Kiki teased, sliding her foot back into the shoe and freeing the other foot for a quick rub.

The blond had been too busy until now to think about the party, the crowd distracting him. Now, however, he was reminded of how bereft he felt that Brian hadn’t invited him. Although Justin and Michael didn’t get along very well, he supported the friendship between Brian and Michael, knowing how much it meant to the Brian. He’d thought the estrangement between himself and his former lover had eased enough that Brian would think to invite him to the do, but he’d clearly been mistaken.

Giving his head a shake, Justin refused to dwell on it for the nonce. He turned his attention to Kiki, admiringly stating, “I don’t know how you manage in heels,” wishing he could as easily kick off his sneakers. “Actually, I don’t know how you manage at all. I’m not even eighteen yet, and I’m worn out.” The blond reached around to massage his lower back, trying to ease an annoying kink.

“Truly, it’s much better for your feet if you aren’t standing around flat-footed,” the tranny informed him. Raising an eyebrow, she suggested, “You should try heels sometime. I bet they’d make your calves look even more shapely.”

“Uh,” Justin sputtered, unsure how to respond.

Right then, a gravelly voice inquired, “What’s good tonight?”

“Well, honey,  _ I’m _ always good,” Kiki teased the weary-looking detective.

“You do look mighty fine,” Carl flirted with the tranny, “but I’m in desperate need of some sustenance. I’m on shift for another three hours.”

Justin smiled, pleased to see the bluff detective. “The fare’s pretty standard tonight,” he reported, “since Harry’s not on duty and neither - thankfully - is the crazy Finnish wannabe chef.”

“Today’s cod fillet is pretty decent, if you like fish,” Kiki interjected.

“No quaint name to put the customers off?” Carl jested.

“Well,” the tranny drawled, “the dish is properly referred to as  _ Catch a Snatch _ . Lesbians love it.”

Chuckling at the aghast look on the copper’s face, Justin revealed, “She just made that up on the spot. You’re safe with the cod; I promise.”

“Uh-huh. I bet I’d be even safer with a burger and fries,” Carl retorted. “Care to join me? I haven’t seen you for a few days.”

“Go on,” Kiki urged, “you haven’t taken a break yet, even though you’ve been here since three o’clock.”

“Yeah, I’m wasting away,” the teen joshed sarcastically, his stomach emitting a rumble that seemed to underscore his statement. “You sure you can handle it on your own?” Justin added in a concerned tone, glancing over as a group of ten rowdy customers exited the diner.

“Positive,” the tranny insisted, also glancing toward the door. “The crowd is finally thinning out.”

“Here,” Kiks placed platefuls of food in front of the two hungry men mere minutes later. “Avocado hamburgers with sweet potato fries. And just for you, Mr Detective, so you can decide whether there’s anything fishy about it, I’ve included a small portion of the cod.”

Both Justin and Carl burst out laughing at the waitress’ cheekiness, Carl winking and saying, “I will investigate it thoroughly. Should I take it up with you if I find something  _ fishy _ about the cod?” 

Kiki left them to their food with a cheerful titter.

The men chatted while they ate, Carl mentioning that there hadn’t been any real progress yet in regard to the burglary. Justin contemplated telling him about the torched locker - as everyone had been pressuring him to do. Desperate to keep matters from escalating at St. James, the teen decided to wait another day or two. He figured he could better assess the situation after meeting with Dr Perkins the next morning.

“Huh,” Carl commented, wiping his mouth with his napkin before standing up, “that cod really wasn’t bad at all. Didn’t even taste like fish.”

The tranny was busy with customers at the other end of the diner, so Justin offered, his blue eyes twinkling, “I’ll let Kiks know there was nothing piscine about it.”

Chuckling, the copper tossed a twenty on to the table, claiming, “I’d better get back to my shift. Watch out for yourself, okay?”

Justin’s conscience twinged that he hadn’t confided in the gruff but sympathetic detective when he’d had the perfect opportunity. Standing up in a rush, he said, “Let me just get your change,” as he headed toward the front counter.

“No need,” Horvath insisted, buttoning up his coat before striding to the door. “Tell the lady it’s a tip for not serving me any  _ fishy business _ .”

The teen chuckled about that conversation on and off until the end of his shift and he was still smiling as he slid into his bed just before midnight. He immediately fell sound asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s where we got our inspiration for the sandwich scene: https://68.media.tumblr.com/8fb21817c2ae75892042949bdc0a000c/tumblr_nhrisw0DqL1smx9avo1_400.gif.  
> And here’s the song Captain Astro strips to if you’d like to listen to it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6ldqoGKLPA.  
> If you'd like to see the graphic of the 'goddess', go to: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=15


	16. Chapter 16

On Friday morning, Justin jolted upright at 6:15, dismayed to realize he’d slept through the alarm. “Fuck!” he shouted, springing to his feet, scooping up his uniform, and dashing to the bathroom. He didn’t even have enough time for a sponge bath, so he just splashed water on his face and sprayed some deodorant on his pits. Quickly examining the blond stubble on his cheeks, he decided it was so faint that no one would notice it.

After pulling on his clothes, he hurried back to his bedroom, where he grabbed his calculus textbook and shoved it into his backpack. That was the only text he’d removed the night before, as he’d practiced that computer writing Daph had mentioned.

Justin had no idea what time Deb and Vic had gotten home from Michael’s birthday do; he’d been so knackered that he’d passed out the moment he’d placed his head on the pillow.

The teen clomped down the stairs two at a time, leaping over the last three to land on the ground floor.

“Sunshine?” Debbie called, poking her head out of the kitchen.

“Later!” Justin replied as he shrugged on his coat before yanking open the door. “I’ve got a meeting with Dr Jerkins.”

After slamming the door shut, he jogged toward the bus stop at a fast clip, waving madly as he saw it pulling away. Shit! He was going to be late for the meeting with the principal.

Fortunately, the driver must’ve seen him in the rearview mirror because he stopped the bus and waited for the panting teen.

“Thanks,” Justin gasped, as he climbed the steps, flashing his bus pass at the man.

“Cutting it a little fine aren’t you?” the driver inquired.

“Fuck, I know,” Justin responded. “I slept through the goddamned alarm.”

“Might want to get one like mine,” the middle-aged bloke, with a spare tire around his middle, suggested. He looked around to make sure none of the other passengers would overhear before confiding, “It sounds like a hot, young filly screaming during orgasm.”

“Uh, no thanks,” the teen stammered. “Mine usually works just fine.” He quickly made his way toward the middle of the bus, slumping into his seat in relief. Dr Jerk-. Justin quickly cut himself off; at this rate, he’d call the St. James’ headmaster that during the meeting. He could only imagine how the homophobic administrator would retaliate.

Once he got to the school, Justin rushed through the halls until he reached the library. “Can I dump my bag here?” he asked, heaving for breath.

“Of course,” the friendly librarian immediately replied, setting down the book she’d been perusing.

“I’ve got a meeting with Dr Jer-, um, I mean Dr Perkins at 7:30,” the teen explained.

Frau Rose pressed her lips together, as if suppressing a smirk at Justin’s near slip of the tongue. Glancing at the clock, she asserted, “That gives you just enough time to put yourself to rights, young man.”

“Huh?” Justin responded, glancing down at himself and flushing when he discovered his shirt was buttoned wrong. Something about the knot in his tie looked off too. “Shit,” he muttered. Frau Rose must think he was a complete pillock who didn’t know how to dress himself. “Ehm, I overslept and almost missed the bus,” he weakly excused his disarray.

“I’ve seen worse,” the librarian teased, her eyes twinkling. “Off to the bathroom with you - again - and set yourself to rights.”

The blond sheepishly trudged in that direction, with the amused teacher calling after him, “Be sure to run a comb through your hair, too. There’s one in the medicine cabinet.”

What he wouldn’t give for a cup of joe, the teen mused to himself as he waited outside Perkins’ office ten minutes later, trying not to fidget under the hostile stares of the Misses Cuthbert and Mefford. They were watching him closely, as if suspecting he was going to make off with the heavy metal stapler that was affixed to the counter.

When Justin had walked into the outer office, Ms Mefford had haughtily informed him that the headmaster was on a very important phone call, so he’d have to wait. The teen had mused sardonically that the “golf on Sunday” Perkins was loudly discussing must, indeed, be critical.

He’d started to take a seat in one of the two chairs along the wall outside the principal’s office, but Ms Cuthbert had sneered, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Dr Perkins will be off the phone any moment, ready to discuss the damage to school property with you. It won’t look good if you’ve made yourself comfortable before a meeting in which you need to explain your actions.”

The teen had gritted his teeth to keep himself from shouting that he was blameless, that he hadn’t torched his own locker, for fuck’s sake. There was no way he could change their opinion of the _gay boy_ , so he might as well save his breath, he’d finally decided.

An eternity - all of five minutes according to the wall clock - passed in silence before the phone on Ms Cuthbert’s desk rang. The secretary pushed a button, and Perkins voice boomed out, “Is that faggot out there?”

The woman didn’t even look ashamed of her unprofessionalism in not picking up the phone to speak to the principal. Did she not realize the school could be liable for slander? the teen wondered. She, Perkins, and the school would be in deep shit if someone were to sue St. James for that disparagement. Not that he’d stand a chance with that kind of suit, he reflected bitterly; it would be his word against theirs.

“Yes, Dr Perkins,” the secretary simpered, “he’s here. Would you like me to send him in?”

“Do that. I’ll get the truth out of him.” the headmaster responded.

“Well, go on then,” Cuthbert ordered. “Don’t keep Dr Perkins waiting.”

Justin marched into the principal’s office, head held high. He held out his hand for the man to shake, but was unsurprised when Perkins ignored his polite gesture. Although his heart was pounding in an anxious rhythm, the teen maintained a calm facade, claiming one of the chairs in front of the Perkins’ desk, crossing his legs nonchalantly.

“What’s your name again?” the balding principal, who was starting to go to seed, asked, shuffling around a couple of folders on his desk.

The fucker damned well knew his name, Justin seethed. He’d opened his mouth to respond anyway when the headmaster dismissed his question with a muttered, “Doesn’t matter.”

Well, that was about right, the blond thought. He didn’t matter to St. James, except for the tuition his parents paid.

“Look, son,” Perkins declared with feigned sincerity, “we don’t want you to get into even more trouble than you’re already in. If you admit to torching your locker, we’ll take it easy on you.”

I’m not your son, you condescending bastard, Justin imagined himself screaming. Rather than say anything, he simply arched one blond eyebrow in inquiry.

“You’ll only have to spend two weeks in detention and another two weeks cleaning out the athletic room.” Perkins magnanimously offered.

Did the man really believe he’d subject himself to abuse from the jocks by hanging out in the athletic room? Justin had avoided the place ever since jerking off Hobbs. The teen briefly mused that he still wasn’t sure why he’d done it. The jock was a bully, not particularly good looking, and had a tiny dick.

“Well?” Perkins demanded. “What’s your answer? Do you want us to take this matter to the police? You could end up in juvie, you know.”

Justin really wanted to kick himself for not confiding in Carl and asking his advice the night before. He clasped his sweaty hands together, worrying that St. James might somehow frame him as the culprit. “Dr Perkins,” he rasped from a dry throat, “I did not set my locker on fire. I’m the victim, not the perpetrator. I understood the purpose of the meeting was for you to authorize the issuance of a new locker.”

“All the proof points at you young man,” Perkins responded sternly, making Justin’s palms sweat more. “If I were you, I’d accept the proposed punishment with good grace.”

The school bell began to chime eight o’clock as the principal finished that ominous statement. Justin rose to his feet, unsure if his legs would support him. Raising his chin, he insisted, “I won’t pay for a crime I didn’t commit. Since the school is accusing me of the vandalism, I’ll speak to my lawyer about how I should proceed. Now I need to go, or I’ll be late for class.” Justin walked to the door and, as he pulled it open, turned and announced, “By the way, my name’s not ‘faggot’. It’s Taylor. Justin Taylor.”

Holding his head high, Justin didn’t look at the secretaries as he exited the principal’s domain. Once out in the hall, he dashed madly toward his calculus classroom, slumping into his seat as the final chime for the hour faded away. Fuck, he congratulated himself, he should have gone out for track; he’d never sprinted so fast in his life.

“Nice of you to join us, Taylor,” Dixon jibed, undoubtedly disappointed that he couldn’t dock the teen for tardiness.

The moment the teacher’s attention was diverted by an actual late arrival, Daphne hissed, “Jus, are you okay? Where’s your rucksack?”

“Shit!” Justin muttered as he realized he’d left his bag in the library. “Could I borrow one of your pencils, Daph? I’ll have to grab my bag between classes.”

“Sure. Here you go.” Daph gave him one of her extras. “You’ll tell me what’s going on at lunch, right?”

“Yeah,” Justin nodded at his bestie, more grateful than ever for her unflagging support.

Dixon handed a set of revision exams to the student at the head of each row to pass back, warning, “I expect better results this time around. Any of you who have a failing grade after this will spend the rest of the semester in study hall and will have to make up this course during the summer.”

Justin forced himself to block out all the whines, plaintive sighs, and other noises, concentrating on the exam. He was determined to do his best to prevent Dixon from marking him down this time.

 

Brian’s day also started off poorly. He was staring at the latest iteration of the boards for the Iams advert and was ready to pull out his hair in frustration. He’d lost count of how many times he’d sent the bloody prelims back to the art department. Every single time, he’d received a mangy, undernourished mutt in return; even providing Justin’s sketch on a napkin apparently hadn’t been enough to inspire them to draw a healthy, happy dog - one that would actually lure owners into buying the product.

His headache worsening, he reached into his desk drawer, fumbling for the bottle of painkillers he kept there. Unfortunately, when he withdrew it, he discovered it was empty. Just as he was about to bellow for his assistant, the blonde stuck her head through the door, a worried frown on her face.

“Uh, Brian?” she asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“What is it?” the ad exec barked, holding out the bottle and hoping she’d take the hint.

“You’re going to want something stronger than that,” Cynthia informed him.

Fuck. The blonde was usually unflappable. What could it be now? Brian wondered, as he waited for her to continue.

“I’ve just heard a rumor, but I’m pretty sure it’s true,” Cynthia explained. “Apparently, all because of that Kip Thomas slimeball, Ryder is considering giving you the boot, based on the legal department’s advice. It might even happen today.”

“Chickenshit fucker,” Brian muttered, resting his chin in his hands and staring at the blonde. “Do you have any other details?”

“Not much,” Cynthia shook her head, “but there may be a big payout involved. Bethany in accounting got that from the gal who assists the head of legal.”

“I’d better call Melanie and give her a heads-up,” Brian mused, “although it will be kind of difficult to decide how to respond until Ryder actually sacks me.”

“Have you thought about what I suggested?” Cynthia probed. At Brian’s blank look, she reminded him, “You know… opening your own firm.”

Brian regarded his assistant contemplatively. “That might not be a bad idea,” he reflected, “provided the severance package is large enough. Even so, starting my own agency would require a fuckton of capital and hours upon hours of work.”

“I’ll help you,” Cynthia eagerly offered. “Heck, I’m already your assistant, dogsbody, and gofer - all in one capable package,” she joked, gesturing at herself.

“So, you wanna come with me as my assistant, huh?” he inquired, leaning back in his chair. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. Sure, it would take months to bring it to fruition, but he was the best adman in Pittsburgh, maybe on the east coast…

“I sure as fuck don’t want to stay here, with Ryder and all the other sleazeballs who are forever groping me,” Cynthia adamantly declared. “Plus, without you, I don’t know how this place will stay afloat; you’re the one bringing in almost all the new accounts.”

“I tell you what,” Brian drawled, “you come with me to my new agency, run your tail off for me, and - once the agency is turning a healthy profit - I’ll consider making you my partner. Provided you complete your business degree first, of course.”

Cynthia gaped at him in astonishment, speechless for once.

Brian praised her some more, “You _do_ possess excellent organizational and research skills, after all.”

Snapping out of her amazed stupor, Cynthia concurred. “That’s one hundred and ten percent true. You know, I’d be interested in running the HR department down the road…”

“Right now,” Brian chuckled, “our unnamed agency consists of me, you, and no one else. No office, no furniture, no clients…”

“Ryder didn’t put a non-compete clause in your contract, die he?” Cynthia asked, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “That means we can try and steal as many of your current clients as possible.”

The ad exec exchanged a shark-like grin with his assistant. “Melanie added a rider to the contract,” he replied, “making sure that wouldn’t apply in case of termination. She was certainly correct that I needed to be prepared for all contingencies. Let me see if I can get her on the phone and ask how I should proceed when Ryder fires me.” Getting sacked suddenly looked much more appealing than he ever could have imagined.

“A rider to the Ryder contract,” Cynthia guffawed, rising and exiting his office as Brian punched in Melanie’s number on his mobile. The bulldyke lawyer was, unfortunately, in court, so Brian left a voicemail asking her to ring him back as soon as possible.

 

“What do you think this is?” Daphne asked Justin at lunchtime, poking at the chunk of mystery meat with her fork. The two friends had immediately headed to the cafeteria, getting in line for a meal after their American Government class ended.

“Whatever it is, it’s unpalatable,” the blond replied, spitting out into his napkin the sliver that he’d dared to try. “I didn’t think the school chefs could surpass their efforts with that pork from Monday, but somehow they’ve done it.”

“Ugh, gross.” Daphne scrunched up her nose and pushed her tray away. “It looks like some sort of alien meat. I’m not eating that.”

Justin turned up his nose at the way overcooked vegetables and pushed his tray away too, staring disconsolately at the unsavory food as his stomach let out a rumble of protest.

“I knew it was in here somewhere!” his friend exulted, unearthing a packet of Fig Newtons from the depths of her backpack. “You take the first one,” she generously offered, pushing the sweets over to Justin.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Justin claimed, eagerly tearing open the package and popping an entire Fig Newton into his mouth.

“Who are you?” Daphne asked, gasping in shock. “Michael?”

“What?” the afronted blond retorted, once he’d finished consuming the goodie. “I don’t talk with food in my mouth or chew with my mouth open.”

When the young woman collapsed in a fit of giggles, exclaiming, “Gotcha!” Justin realized he’d been fooled, that Daphne didn’t actually think he chewed his cud like Michael did.

“You… you,” he spluttered, unable to think of a good insult. Giving in, he started giggling too.

As the friends worked their way through the figgy package, Justin related the outcome of his meeting with the principal that morning. “Jerkins didn’t even consider that I might be the victim,” he angrily reported.

“He certainly lives up to the name ‘Jerkins’,” Daph agreed. “Maybe you should go to the police, Jus, like Deb and Vic advised,” she muttered, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.

“Yeah, about that,” Justin confessed, “I could have told Detective Horvath last night when he dropped in at the diner.”

“Fuck, Justin! Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” Daphne interjected, obviously irate that her bestie hadn’t confided in the copper.

“I know it was dumb… now,” the dejected blond replied. “But yesterday I thought I still might be able to handle matters on my own, you know?”

“Well, you could still call him, right?” Daphne inquired. “Or even go by the police station and ask for him.”

“I will. This afternoon. I pinky swear,” Justin added, when his friend eyed him doubtfully. He held out his hand, entwining his little finger with Daphne’s. Ever since they’d been wee nippers, a pinky swear had been a solemn oath between them, not to be broken.

“Okay, then,” Daphne acknowledged. “I expect a full recounting tomorrow.”

“What did you think of the calculus revision?” Justin asked, teasing, “I didn’t hear you moaning and groaning like last time.”

“It was easier this time,” Daph admitted. “I’m pretty sure that I got at least a C-.”

“It was pretty much a cinch this time around,” Justin boasted. “I’m surprised Dixon didn’t vary the problems more. Even with how carefully I wrote the solutions, though, I’m sure he’ll find something to mark me down for.”

“Braggart,” his friend accused fondly, shaking her head. “Well at least we aren’t among the poor fuckers who are flunking out and will have to retake the class.”

“It would be a fate worse than death to have to endure that class all over again with Dixon,” Justin concurred.

“Can we study together again? Maybe after Thanksgiving break?” Daphne inquired. “That really helped me.”

“Sure. Wednesday the twenty-ninth, after I finish my shift?” Justin suggested.

“It’s a date,” Daph agreed, as the two of them stood up, scraping off their trays before pushing them through the window to the kitchen.

There was something a little odd about the gleam in his friend’s eyes, but Justin couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Shrugging it off, he chatted companionably with her as they headed toward their physics classroom.

 

While Brian’s mood might have improved slightly after his talk with Cynthia, he was still feeling a little miffed at Ryder’s actions later than afternoon. He had even tried torturing the art department to make himself feel a little better, but it hadn’t helped much. He had been a vital part of this damned company as a senior account executive for the better part of five years, bringing in the majority of new accounts, yet it was so easy for Ryder to give him the boot. That was completely unfair, as well as stupid on his boss’ part - what did the man expect to happen after Brian was gone? That the clients that had came on board thanks to Brian’s skills and creativity would be satisfied with the subpar work Ryder would provide without him?

He sighed, rubbing a tired hand across his face. He should really concentrate on the damned Kofola account, or he’d never get it done. Even with his motivation to bring another account to Ryder rapidly dwindling, his sense of professionalism wouldn’t let him leave the job half done. It should’ve really been in the art department already, but the planning of Michael’s birthday party had slowed his progress. He’d hopefully have a lot more time now that his best friend had a boyfriend again, he thought.

“I need to see Brian,” a strident voice demanded, as if on cue, disturbing his sour thoughts.

“He’s busy working on an account,” Cynthia explained. “If you want to leave a message, I can ask him to get in touch with you later.”

“No, it’s important. I need to speak with him now,” the man insisted, his shrill tone rising.

Feeling as if a drill were boring into his head, and wondering if he would ever catch a break on this hellish day, Brian rose to his feet and stalked over to the door, pulling it all the way open. “It’s okay, Cynthia,” he stated wearily. “Michael can come in.”

“I should think so,” his friend huffed, stomping into the office.

Cynthia winced, shooting a commiserating glance at her boss.

Brian raised his eyebrows ceiling-wards before following Michael into the office, shutting the door firmly behind himself.

“What’s so important that it can’t wait?” he inquired sardonically, dropping onto one end of the sofa and motioning for Michael to take a seat.

“I told you at the party yesterday that I needed to talk to you further - about the horrid way you outed me to Tracy,” Michael declared, plopping down almost on top of Brian. “Not that I’m ungrateful for the party,” he tacked on. “You really came through for my thirtieth birthday.”

Brian couldn’t help feeling bad for his distraught friend, but shit, when was he going to twig to the fact that he’d done that _for_ Michael, to make his life at the Big Q easier? He didn’t give a flying fuck about being thanked for the birthday do; he just wanted it to have the desired effect of the man clinging to him a bit less tightly. Placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders, he shook him lightly, asking in a mild tone, “Did you talk to Tracy today? I’m sure she would’ve confirmed what she said at the party yesterday.”

“No,” Michael pouted, “she wasn’t scheduled to work today. Not that it matters… I wasn’t ready to talk to her anyway.”

Brian bit his tongue to keep from asking how he’d gotten so lucky that Michael was ready to talk to him. “Look, Mikey, maybe I overstepped in talking to Tracy, but you were treating her like shit, leading her on like that. If you didn’t want to tell her the truth, you should’ve just said you were seeing someone else.”

“But she might’ve guessed I’m gay,” Michael protested. “After all, she saw me with you on Liberty Avenue.”

“Ah, yes, me - the poor fag you were accompanying out of the goodness of your heart,” Brian drily retorted. “What would I do without a friend like you, Mikey?”

“You’ll never know,” Michael professed, evidently missing Brian’s sarcasm. “We’ll always be together. Two queers spending their final days in Palm Springs.”

“What a delightfully morbid thought,” Brian quipped. Attempting to get the conversation back on track, he suggested, “Talk to Tracy tomorrow. Even if she’s not ready to discuss the way you treated her, she’ll confirm, _again_ , that she won’t out you at the Big Q. She could’ve done that already, if she’d wanted to. She knows what a homophobic rathole that place is; she’s not going to do anything that would cost you your job.”

“Maybe,” Michael stated uncertainly, a mulish expression still covering his face. “Regardless, you shouldn’t have done that to me,” he reiterated.

Fuck. His friend was like a dog with a bone, Brian reflected.

“David told me this morning that I shouldn’t have to work at a place like that,” Michael awkwardly altered the direction of their conversation.

“Because of the homophobia?” Brian surmised.

“Not exactly,” Michael responded. “He thinks it’s way beneath my skill level.”

Christ. What skills did the doc think Mikey had? Brian wondered. “Hmm,” he noncommittally offered.

“He said I should consider staying at home, that I could be a big help to him with hosting dinner parties and taking care of his son, Hank, when he comes for a visit,” Michael revealed. “But I don’t know if that’s what I want. What do you think?”

“Michael, I just want you to be happy,” Brian sincerely vowed. “And even though I didn’t like him much at first, I think the doc is good for you. As to whether you want to be the little hausfrau, that’s something you’ll have to decide. Now, I really have to get back to work, okay?”

“Okay,” Michael replied slowly, reluctance in his voice. “See you at Woody’s later?”

“Maybe. I’ll probably be here late catching up on a couple of accounts,” Brian hinted, slinging an arm around his buddy’s shoulders and steering him toward the door.

“We’ll miss you if you aren’t there,” Michael admitted, looking soulfully at this friend.

“You’ll survive,” Brian responded wryly. “Have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” he teased, bestowing a farewell kiss on Michael’s lips.

“That doesn’t leave out anything,” Michael chuckled, “except, of course, bottoming.” With that, he waved farewell and departed.

Brian must’ve had a weird look on his face, because when he glanced at his secretary, her face was full of avid curiosity.

“Don’t even ask,” Brian ordered. “That’s not a discussion we’re having.”

“For now,” his secretary murmured, leaving no doubt in Brian’s mind that, given the opportunity, she’d raise the topic of bottoming in the future. Fucking Mikey and his big mouth, he mused as he trudged back to his desk, where the dreaded Kofola account awaited.

 

Justin got off the bus a couple hundred yards away from the police station and took a deep breath. He was really doing this, he thought, he was really going to tell Detective Horvath someone had torched his locker. If the man had time for him, that was - he hadn’t called ahead, perhaps subconsciously hoping the cop would be busy and couldn’t speak to him.

“You need anything, lad?” a tall, strict-looking police officer asked him, voice full of suspicion. It was then that Justin realised he had been standing in front of the police station for some time.

“Uh, yeah. I’m here to speak to Detective Horvath but I don’t know if he’ll have time for me,” he replied politely.

The copper sniffed. “What do you want with him?”

The teenager didn’t like the man’s tone. “I just want to speak to him,” he repeated, with a little attitude this time.

The policeman raised his eyebrows. “Well, he doesn’t want to speak to you, so scram.”

Justin was just about to retort, gathering all of his wit and sass, when a deep female voice interrupted with two forceful words, “Anderson, leave.”

The blond turned to see who had joined their conversation and came face to face with a short Asian woman, wearing a dark blue business suit and an impassive look on her face.

The copper immediately lost his smug expression, retreating. “Yes, Ma’am,” he muttered before scarpering.

The woman then turned to Justin, and the teenager steeled himself to meet her gaze, hoping he wouldn’t piss his pants. When he did look at her, though, he was surprised to encounter warm eyes. “You said you needed to speak to Carl?” she asked him.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbled hesitantly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Speak up,” she told him, reminding Justin of his mother. Scary.

“Yes, I am,” he told her, enunciating clearly.

She nodded. “I’m Detective Wen,” she introduced herself.

“Justin Taylor,” he returned the courtesy, giving the woman a bright smile. She gave him an answering twitch of her lips, which Justin surmised was the most anyone would ever get out of her in terms of a smile.

“Come on then,” she encouraged him, putting a firm hand on the small of his back, guiding him into the station. Justin let himself be maneuvered through hallways and up stairs, until they stopped in front of a door with a nameplate saying, ‘Det. C. L. Horvath, Det. M. Wen’.

“You’re Detective Horvath’s partner,” the blond realised.

The Asian hmmed, opening the door. Motioning him in, she announced, “Justin Taylor here to see you, Carl.”

The burly detective looked up from where he was slumped at his desk. “Justin?” he asked in surprise. “Did something happen?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” the blond spluttered, shifting from one foot to the other, his usual articulateness deserting him.

Horvath narrowed his eyes. “Sit,” he pointed at the chair in front of his desk, “and talk.” His voice wasn’t harsh but it was firm.

For some reason, the detective’s tone calmed Justin down. He took the indicated seat, breathing in deeply, “I know I should have told you at the diner yesterday, but I still thought I could handle this by myself. It’s hard enough for me as it is as the only ‘out’ gay student at St. James.” He then launched into the story of the torched locker, faltering as the copper’s frown grew darker, finally concluding, “I’m worried that Dr Jerk- I mean Perkins, is going to make me responsible for the entire incident.”

The detective exchanged a furious look with his partner, who was standing by his side, clenching her fists. “You’re right,” he growled, the amount of effort it took him to control his voice obvious, “you should’ve told me yesterday.” Then, exchanging another brief look with Wen, he lectured, “This sort of thing has to be nipped in the bud, Justin, otherwise it escalates and someone can get seriously hurt. We see it every day in our line of work.”

Justin wilted in his chair at the fierce tone as well as the detectives’ reactions. Debbie and Vic had been right, he now realised; there was no way he could handle something of this magnitude on his own. He didn’t dare interrupt, though, as the copper continued speaking.

“I have to say I’m very disappointed in you,” the policeman said regretfully, his face looking a little sad. “I had thought you’d have more brains than that, son.”

The teenager wished he could crawl under the desk. He felt like a total mug for not reporting what he now understood was a serious crime. As Horvath looked at him, Justin recognized that the man really cared about him; otherwise, he wouldn’t bother with the lecture. This must be what it would be like to have a proper dad, he reflected, one who actually cared about his wellbeing.

“Do you think I should talk to my lawyer?” he asked diffidently. “I’m not sure what’s best right now.”

The detectives glanced at each other again, making Justin think they had some sort of weird, secret eye language or magical mind-reading skills. “I’d ask you to wait a couple of days before you take any legal steps,” the man said finally, apparently getting Wen’s secret message. “I want to try and call your principal first, see if I can talk some sense into him. If not, I could send Ming here to scare the crap out of him,” he finished, only half-jokingly.

Justin glanced at the other detective, who was still clenching and unclenching her fists rhythmically, a stony expression on her face. “If anyone can get through to that fu-” he stuttered to a halt, uncertain whether it was okay to use that kind of language.

He needn’t have worried as Detective Wen dutifully finished the word for him. “Fucker,” she gritted out through her teeth, a slight hint of an accent coming through in her anger.

Justin was _very_ glad the deadly-looking copper was on his side. “Do I need to do anything else for now?” he asked, relieved that he’d come to talk to Horvath after all. “Fill out some kind of form or something?”

The detective nodded. “I don’t have any with me here, since this is not really part of what I do anymore, but they should have some blank incident reports at the front desk.” The burly man tilted his head in silent consideration. “You can bring it back here to fill out, so you’ll have a quiet place to concentrate. I find all those muggers, brawlers, and prostitutes a little distracting.”

Wen snorted at that but didn’t otherwise comment, letting her partner continue. “I’ll file it myself, so it doesn’t get buried.”

“Thanks,” the teen replied sincerely, letting out a sigh. He was really doing this, reporting the St. James administration to the police. Standing, he turned to the door, joking, “I think I can find my way through this labyrinth. If I’m not back in ten minutes, you can assume the prostitutes got to me.”

The friendly detective chuckled. “Go, you brat,” he waved him away fondly.

As Justin was leaving the office, he could hear the quiet murmuring of the two partners. He thought he heard the words ‘crack’, ‘nuts’, and something that sounded like ‘baychee’, which must be some kind of code word. It made him feel good that the two detectives were willing to personally handle his case, even though they surely had homicides to investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 白痴 (Bái chī) means 'idiot' in Chinese.


	17. Chapter 17

Justin thundered down the stairs and skidded into the kitchen at six-thirty on Saturday morning. He didn’t have to set foot in St. James for a week because of the Thanksgiving break, and today was the big day, the one when they’d add a new member to their family.

He grinned happily as Vic glanced up from where he was ensconced at the kitchen table in his pajamas, plaid bathrobe, and slippers, sipping at a steaming cup of coffee. “What’s got you so chipper this morning?” the man leered, licking his lips. “Did you get some last night?”

The teen shifted uncomfortably, his dick twitching in his cargos, as he was reminded that he’d had only his hand to rely on for the past two weeks. He needed to change that soon, or he figured his hand might wear out. Maybe he could pull a willing trick after his first dance shift at Babylon...

When Vic cleared his throat, quirking an eyebrow at him, Justin flushed, realising he hadn’t answered the older man’s question. “Uh, no,” he stuttered, mourning, “haven’t gotten any in far too long.”

“I suggest you rectify that stat,” Vic jested. “A gay boy’s pecker will wither and fall off if it’s not used.

“Bite your tongue, Vic Grassi,” Debbie ordered as she entered the kitchen. “I’m sure Justin’s pecker is in no danger. Right, Sunshine?”

The teen wanted to melt through the floor from embarrassment. How did their conversations so often veer onto the topic of his sex life? he wondered. “Uh, pass me the cereal, wouldya Debs?” he requested, quickly changing the topic.

“That’s not a enough to sustain a _growing_ boy,” the redhead teasingly chided, making Justin turn even redder. “How about I whip up some scrambled eggs and bacon?”

“Say yes!” Vic hissed, pouting. “Sis’ll never make them just for me.”

“You old reprobate,” Debbie scolded. “You get bacon and eggs at least once a week,” saucily adding, “although you tend to prefer biting into sausage.”

“You know me so well, Sis,” her brother readily agreed, not looking at all offended.

“So, bacon and eggs?” Deb repeated her offer, already grabbing the ingredients from the fridge.

“If it’s not too much trouble, and if there’s enough time before our shift,” Justin responded politely, his stomach rumbling happily at the idea it would soon be fed. “I could always grab something at the diner.”

“I can whip this up in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Debs insisted, making Justin laugh at the colloquialism as she sashayed toward the stove, shaking her own well-padded tail, a carton of eggs in hand.

“Eat here,” Vic advised, chuckling along with the blond at his sister’s antics. “Even Fahad’s cooking doesn’t have a touch on Deb’s.”

“Okay,” Justin acquiesced easily, walking over to his surrogate mother and inquiring, “what can I do to help?”

“See that, Vic?” Debbie addressed her brother, “You should follow Sunshine’s example.”

“I rather think he should follow mine,” Vic quipped, settling deeper into his chair.

“I don’t need any help, Kiddo,” the motherly redhead told Justin. “I could prepare this in my sleep. Go take a load off - you’ll be running around like a chicken with its head cut off soon enough at the diner.”

Deb quickly beat the eggs together with milk, throwing in some spices. “I’d better give you a hand, though,” she remarked.

“With?” the puzzled teen responded.

“Your concealer,” the redhead replied, “unless you want to field queries about your shiner.”

“Fuck, no,” the teen exclaimed. “I’ve already had enough of that. I’ve learned I’m not much of a dab hand at applying greasepaint,” he finished wryly. Then a thought struck him. “I’m lucky Detective Horvath didn’t notice anything yesterday.”

Debs snorted in a very unladylike manner. “You really believe that, Kiddo? Coppers notice everything.”

Justin scrunched up his nose. “He didn’t say anything, though,” he noted, brow furrowing.

The redhead shrugged. “Probably didn’t want to lay into you any more than necessary,” she theorised. “We’ll cover up that black eye right after we eat.”  

A few minutes before seven o’clock, the two cohorts entered the diner, astounded to be confronted by a teeming crowd.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” Harry greeted them. “The queers have been crawling out of the woodwork since five o’clock this morning.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Deb exclaimed. “Is there a sale on dildos or something?”

“Either that, or they’re here to ogle Justin’s bodacious butt,” Harry quipped. He vanished into the breakroom, reappearing moments later with his coat on. “I’m outta here,” he announced, before dashing out the door.

“He must’ve really wanted to escape this horde,” the blond remarked, shaking his head. “He couldn’t even wait for us to get our aprons on.”

“You know,” Deb stated wearily a few hours later as they met up at the cash register, “there may be something to Harry’s theory that your ass is attracting more customers than ever before.”

“No complaints,” the somewhat frazzled teen replied. “It’s raking in lots of tips, so I’ll have something to pay Brian back.

“I’m so fucking proud of you for sticking to that,” the waitress declared, before hustling over to serve two noisy queens, who appeared to be arguing about who had the better wig. Justin himself would probably vote for the Victoria Beckham style short bob rather than the Brigitte Bardot inspired blonde wig.

 

The teenager was practically bouncing as he and Debbie left the eatery that afternoon at four o’clock, energized by their upcoming shopping expedition. “Where shall we look first, Debs?” he excitedly inquired. “The local humane society?”

The redhead chuckled at Justin’s exuberance. “You sure have been chomping at the bit - ever since we unearthed my old birdcage while cleaning the attic last Saturday - to acquire a budgie,” Debbie fondly teased the eager blond. “That’s a fine notion, however, Sunshine. If they don’t have Harley’s great-great-grandson, we’ll try somewhere else.”

When they reached Deb’s house, the redhead led Justin directly to the garage.

“What is that?” Justin questioned in astonishment after Debbie heaved open the door.

“That’s my Vincent,” Debbie announced, patting the vivid orange exterior of the Ford Pinto as she walked to the driver’s side. “Go on. Get in,” she waved the teen toward the passenger door.

The vinyl was clearly old, Justin observed as he gingerly opened the door and looked inside, but the interior had been kept scrupulously clean. The unkind thought that Michael must not have driven it recently crossed his mind; the man seemed to leave a trail of crumbs and debris behind himself wherever he ate, and the blond couldn’t believe that if Michael had a car, he wouldn’t constantly have munched away on junk food in the vehicle.

“I was such hot stuff in this car,” Deb reminisced. “The guys couldn’t take their eyes off me.”

The teenager had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out that it was probably the hideous car that had drawn attention. He’d never hurt Debbie’s feelings by saying that, though. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “you really were a bombshell in those old albums I leafed through, Debs.”

The redhead turned her head, bestowing a brilliant smile on Justin. “Why thank you, Kiddo. I pulled quite a few guys back in the day.”

An ‘eww’ expression on his face, the blond pled, “Can we talk about something else? Please…”

Debbie cackled, “Heteros _do it_ too, ya know.”

“Yeah,” Justin mumbled, “but I don’t want to think about it, much less talk about it.”

“Here we are,” the motherly woman declared as she pulled into the parking lot for the Sequoia Humane Society.

The teen looked at the sign in puzzlement, inquiring. “Aren’t sequoias out west, like in California?”

“I reckon that’s about right,” Deb replied. “I think the founder of this place was a transplanted tree-hugger from some remote town in the northwest. He must’ve been feeling nostalgic when he named it.”

“I wonder if budgies like the redwoods…” Justin mused as they entered the building, the bell chiming _Where the Wild Things Are_.

“Can I help you?” a young woman asked brightly, her name tag identifying her as Susie, a volunteer.

“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for a blue budgie,” Justin responded hesitantly, thinking that this place was likely to have mostly cats and dogs. He and Debs would probably have to try a pet store.

“Oh, you’re in luck!” Susie exuberantly responded. “A couple who were moving to Nepal didn’t want to put the parakeet through the trauma of an international move. They couldn’t find any friends who would take the little critter, so they dropped him off here a week ago.”

“Can we see him?” Justin asked, exchanging an excited glance with Debbie, barely able to believe this humane society might actually have his Harley.

“Of course. Right this way,” the volunteer ushered them to a room with just a few birdcages. “We don’t get that many birds here. It’s mostly cats and dogs,” she commented, confirming Justin’s earlier surmise.

“He looks so sad,” Debbie murmured, immediately homing in on the cage with the little budgie and poking her fingers through the bars.

“He’s been disconsolate since he was left here,” Susie admitted. “He’s hardly let out a cheep.”

“What do you think, Deb? This is Harley the Second for sure, right?” Justin urged.

“It definitely is, Sunshine,” his surrogate mother assented. “He’ll be talking in no time once we get him home.”

“I’m made up that you’re taking the little cutie,” Susie announced. “Do you need a cage? Birdseed? We have those items for a good price.”

“Fuck!” Deb exclaimed. “I forgot the cage at home.” She then sheepishly glanced at Susie, “Uh, sorry. I don’t have much of a filter.”

Susie giggled, “No worries. I’ve been know to let rip with an expletive or two as well. And we have a box you can take him home in. It’ll be fine since you’ll be transferring him to a proper cage.”

Justin interjected, “Should we get a box of birdseed?”

“Good idea, Deb concurred. Then we won’t have to worry about that for awhile.”

Soon thereafter, they exited the building, Justin carrying Harley in a cardboard box, all of seven dollars poorer. “What a bargain,” he claimed. “I never expected to acquire a parakeet and a box of bird seed so cheaply.”

“We done good,” Debbie humorously congratulated both of them. “Give me the birdie, okay?” she then asked, confusing the teen.

“Huh?” Justin responded to her request.

“The budgie,” Debbie repeated, taking the box out of Justin’s hand and tossing him the keys to Vincent.

“You want me to drive?” the blond squeaked.

“You got it in one. You really are a bright lad,” Debs teased. “You want the practice, doncha?”

“Uh, yeah,” Justin agreed, wincing a bit at the idea of being seen driving the Ford Pinto. Debs was right, though; he needed the practice. It had been at least a month since his mom had let him drive her car.

Fortunately, Debbie’s house wasn’t all that far from the humane society, so it only took twenty minutes before the teen pulled into the driveway. He was proud that he’d only stalled out once since the car had manual transmission, like his dad’s; he’d only driven Craig’s car twice, so shifting gears in the Pinto had been a challenge.

“Just leave Vincent in the driveway,” Deb suggested. “I’ll put him away later. Right now we should get Harley settled in.”

“Okay,” Justin readily agreed, not particularly wanting to stall out again as he maneuvered the car into the garage.

“Vic, we’re home!” Deb yelled as they entered the house, Justin once more carrying the budgie.

“You found Harley the Second so quickly?” Vic queried in surprise.

“Yep. Here he is,” Justin disclosed, lifting the budgie out of the box and inserting him into the birdcage, which Vic had placed on the kitchen table. “Go on little guy - check out your new home,” the teen encouraged.

Harley immediately chirped, flitting over to the blue ring in the middle of the cage and clasping it in his claws.

“He’ll be cursing like a sailor in no time,” Vic decreed.

“Or like a waiter,” Debbie joshed.

“What’s that aroma?” Justin inquired, belatedly noticing the enticing smell emanating from the oven.

“I thought we should have a bit of a celebration to welcome Harley the Second,” Vic stated, “so I made some scones.”

“Why, Victor Grassi,” Deb crowed, slapping her brother on the shoulder and making the man stagger slightly, “it’s high time you showed off your culinary skills again.”

The three of them settled in at the table, munching on scones with clotted cream and sipping on tea, moving Harley’s cage over to the counter so he could observe them and join in the conversation if he wanted.

“Spit it out,” Vic demanded a bit later. “You’re never silent for five whole minutes, Justin. What’s troubling you?”

“Ehm, you were right,” Justin shamefacedly confessed. “I should have gone to the police right away about my torched locker.”

“What brought you to that realization?” Debbie asked.

“As you know, I was supposed to meet with Dr Perkins, the school principal, yesterday morning.” Debbie frowned, possibly supposing he hadn’t made it to the meeting, so the teen hastily tacked on, “I didn’t miss the meeting, I promise.”

“So what happened?” Vic questioned in an ominous tone.

“Perkins was a total jerk,” Justin related. “He all but outright accused me of vandalizing my own locker.”

“That fucking bastard,” Debbie seethed. “I’m going to march down there on Monday and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Uh, it’s Thanksgiving break,” Justin reminded her. “I doubt anyone, including Jerkins, will be around for the next week.”

“Jerkins, sounds like the perfect name for that bigot,” Vic chuckled. “So, Kiddo, when are you going to the police? You shouldn’t put it off any longer.”

“I went to see Detective Horvath - you know, the one that keeps stopping by the diner - yesterday, after I went off shift.” Justin revealed.

“Why didn’t you tell us about it when you got home?” Deb inquired, an offended look on her face.

“I’d already had the detective read me the riot act, even if it was out of concern,” Justin admitted. “I wasn’t ready for another lecture so soon after that.”

“Then we’ll lecture you now,” Vic chided, shaking his head at the blond.

“Well, what did Horvath say? Are those flatfoots gonna do anything to help?” Debbie impatiently demanded.

“Yes,” Justin hurriedly reassured Vic and Deb, who were both distrustful, with good reason, of the police. “Detective Horvath is going to ring Jerkins again after the break - he already tried once - and see whether he can make him rethink matters. If that doesn’t work, it’s likely his partner, Detective Wen, will pay a visit to the school. She’s one scary woman, let me tell you,” the teen reported, shuddering a bit.

“If you need scary, just sic me on that sack of shit,” Deb suggested. “I’ll show the man scary. He’ll be pissing his pants before I’m done.”

“Calm down, Sis. Let the fuzz handle it for now,” Vic advised. “You can be their backup.”

“Alright,” Deb conceded. “You’d better keep us updated from now on, you hear me, young man?”

Justin promptly agreed, and the trio turned to discussing preparations for the upcoming Thanksgiving dinner, Vic teasing, “Do we need to get a whole turkey just to appease your stomach, Sunshine?”

 

Come six-thirty, Justin was hoofing it over to Babylon, still utterly made up about his new buddy. His trademark smile covered his face as he knocked at the door, Oscar - the bouncer who’d done him a good turn by letting him in with Vic’s ID the first time he’d visited the club - finally cracking it open a few minutes later. “We aren’t open yet, Blondie,” he grinned, Justin’s good humor proving infectious, as usual.

“I know,” the teen replied, “but Mr Smythe wanted to meet with me.” He hadn’t yet adjusted to the idea of calling the owner of the club by his first name and didn’t know if he ever would.

“So, you’re the new go-go boy who’s going to bring in the hordes of customers,” the bouncer deduced. “Arthur’s been raving about some blond boy, but I hadn’t connected him with you till now.”

“Yep. That’s me.” Justin beamed some more. “I just hope I can live up to his high expectations.”

“You do realize you’re gonna be fucking tired after shaking your ass all night, don’t you?” Oscar asked, shaking his head at the teen’s enthusiasm. “That’s no easy gig.”

“I can handle it,” Justin asserted confidently. No way was he go to pass on this opportunity to earn money that would allow him to pay Brian back more quickly for all those burgled goods.

“Just don’t turn to drugs to keep yourself going,” the bouncer cautioned. “You’d crash and burn so bad, it’d take you ages to recover.”

“Don’t worry, Oscar. No drugs,” Justin promised.

“Off you go then. Arthur’s office is up the stairs to the left,” Oscar informed him.

“Justin, lad,” Smythe greeted him warmly when he knocked and poked his head through the open door. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, sir,” Justin greeted the older gent, who was wearing a pair of horn-rimmed half glasses. The man really was something of a fox, Justin observed, before dismissing him as being much too old. Besides, the man was about to become his boss, and it wouldn’t do to fuck the man under those circumstances.

“No need to call me sir,” Smythe reminded the teen. “I’m not _that_ much older than you."

Justin’s face pinkened as he wondered whether the bossman had read his mind.

Babylon’s owner continued speaking, however, without further addressing that topic. “This is a standard contract,” he explained, removing the document from a pile of papers on his desk. “You’ll be working part-time, twelve to eighteen hours a week, as long as it fits in with your school requirements and your schedule at the diner. Does that sound reasonable?”

“It does,” Justin agreed, certain he could handle two or three nights of dancing per week.

“Refreshments and snacks are free for employees, of course,” Arthur continued, “and you’ll get a break after dancing for thirty minutes. You’ll dance and take breaks on a rotation system, which goes like this: Dancer one goes on a break and dancer two replaces him. Ten minutes later, dancer three takes his break, and dancer one steps in for him. Then dancer four leaves, and dancer one replaces him. That goes on until dancer one is up for a break again.

The teen’s eyes glazed over a bit as he tried to calculate how that would work, causing Smythe to chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured Justin, “the system has been in use for years and runs smoothly. I know dancing is hard work, so I do my best to ensure my lads don’t collapse from exhaustion.” His eyes twinkled devilishly at Justin, as if he couldn’t imagine a teen in such fine fettle doing any anything of the sort.

Justin nodded in acknowledgement. So far, so good.

“My plan is to schedule you on Friday and Saturday nights, with an occasional extra night,” Smythe elucidated. “We usually get our largest crowds at the weekend, and that fine arse of yours will be an extra draw.”

The teen almost reached back to check his own ass; he hadn’t realized it was quite that fine.

“It’s the first thing they’ll notice, of course, with you waggling it in their faces as they order their drinks.” Smythe rubbed his hands gleefully, presumably at the thought of all the loot he’d be making. “Then, they’ll notice that brilliant smile of yours and be completely captivated. They’ll be stuffing so many bills in your underwear, you’ll have to spend half your break counting the money you’ve earned,” the man jested. “The club also rakes in money from customers buying drinks for you dancers, so we instruct the barmen to substitute non-alcoholic drinks for anything they order for you - for example, water instead of vodka, iced tea instead of whiskey.”

As dollar signs danced in his eyes, Justin decided he was going to be the best ass-wagger ever. He didn’t care that he wouldn’t be drinking alcohol since it wouldn’t make a good impression on his boss - he was underage, after all - and alcohol wouldn’t hydrate him properly after he’d worked up a sweat anyroad.

“The tips are all yours, naturally,” the bossman asserted. “That’s where you’ll earn most of your money, and it’s the reason your base wage is only eighteen dollars an hour. I’d estimate your tips will be a minimum of five times the hourly amount, probably ten times, depending on how much those horny queers are lusting after you.”

“Hmm,” Justin mumbled, completely gobsmacked that he could expect to earn that much money in one hour.

“You’ll work a six-hour shift on Friday and Saturday, and you’ll get a longer break in the middle of the shift so you can eat something and refuel your energy.” Arthur further laid out the terms. “Will eight p.m. until two a.m. work for you?”

“That’ll be fine,” Justin affirmed.

A few minutes later they were done reviewing the contract, so the teen requested, “I’d like to take the contract and have my lawyer look it over this evening. Once she okays it, I’ll sign, make a copy, and return it to you tomorrow.”

Smythe’s eyebrows rose in surprise when Justin mentioned his lawyer, and he intoned, “You really are full of surprises, young man. I didn’t expect a high schooler to have his own attorney.”

The blond shrugged. “She’s part of my Liberty Avenue family and is always ready to lend any of us a hand.”

“I envy you, Justin,” Smythe half joked. “I have to pay my lawyer a hefty retainer for his services.”

 

Shortly after leaving Babylon, Justin arrived on the lesbians’ doorstep, hoping it would be okay that he hadn’t called ahead. When Lindsay opened the door, looking rather disheveled, he hesitantly inquired, “Is this a bad time?”

“Huh?” the blonde woman replied. “Oh, no, we weren’t doing _that_.”

Justin practically wilted in relief. After Deb and her allusions earlier that day to het sex, he really couldn’t have dealt with hearing about what lesbians did - in or out of bed.

“Gus spit up all over me,” Lindsay explained, brushing at the large damp patch on her blouse. “I was just trying to get it out with some Zout. It would’ve made more sense to change my top, but I didn’t feel like traipsing upstairs.”

At that moment, Melanie appeared, carrying the culprit. “Jushun,” the toddler babbled, stretching out his arms toward the blond.

“Hiya, Buddy,” Justin cheerfully greeted the tyke, taking him from Mel. “I hear you’ve been busy decorating your mom.”

Gus gurgled again, looking inordinately pleased with himself, the resemblance to his father plain to see.

“Let me have him again for a moment,” Melanie suggested, “so you can at least take off your jacket.”

The tyke whooped as he was handed back to his mother, obviously considering it a fun game.

After divesting himself of his coat, scarf, and gloves, Justin sat down on the couch, rooting around in his backpack. He finally pulled out the contract, which had somehow gotten lodged at the bottom in less than twenty minutes. “There it is!” he triumphantly exclaimed, before turning to Mel and asking, “I don’t mean to be a bother, but could you possibly look this over for me? I want to make sure everything is kosher before I sign it.”

“What is it?” Mel inquired curiously, taking a seat next to Justin, handing Gus to him, and reaching for the document on the coffee table.

“It’s my contract to perform as a go-go boy at Babylon,” the teen absently replied as he made faces at Gus, much to the boy’s delight.

“You’re really going through with that?” Mel enquired, her misgivings clear in her voice.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Justin huffed. “I’m an adult, and my decisions should be respected.” The teen had the niggling impression that he sounded more like a petulant five-year-old, but he resolutely ignored it.

“Whoa, calm down, sweetie,” Mel commanded, placatingly patting Justin’s hand, which rested on Gus’ back. “I just want to make sure you’ve thought it through.”

“I’ve talked with a few go-go dancers,” Linds chimed in as she carried a tray with a pot of tea, a creamer, a sugar bowl, cups and saucers, spoons, and a plate with slices of gingerbread over to the coffee table. “None of them could get by without popping pills - the job is that exhausting.”

Justin nevertheless remained certain he could handle the job, but he felt bad for being such a rude little shit. “I’m sorry,” he confessed. “I know you were only expressing your concern for me. I promise, if it gets to the point that I can’t keep going without drugs, I’ll quit.”

Right then a perfunctory knock on the door heralded Brian’s arrival as the brunet pushed open the door, interrupting their conversation. Paling, Justin frantically hissed, “Don’t mention the go-go gig in front of Brian okay? It’s practically the only thing he’s talked to me about since we split, and all he did was chastise me.”

Lindsay stood up to greet her friend, while Melanie murmured, “We won’t say anything as long as you agree to talk more with us. Here,” she added, “the contract seems above board, so you can sign it. But we _will_ discuss this more.”

Justin quickly agreed, stuffing the contract in his backpack and pulling out a pad of paper, bouncing Gus in his arms as he did so. “Jushun!” the tyke crowed, tangling his pudgy fingers in strands of blond hair as the teen hastily started sketching him.

“Justin. Mel,” Brian acknowledged curtly as he walked into the room. Fuck, why did the blond have to pop up everywhere he went? he morosely wondered.

“Bah, ga,” Gus greeting his dad with a smile, drool trailing down his chin.

“That’s right, Sonnyboy,” Brian encouraged, lifting the boy out of the loose circle of Justin’s arms. “Say Dada.”

“Hey!” Justin protested.

“Give over,” Brian muttered. “You can do a better job with your scribbling if you look at my son while you’re doing it.”

“ _My_ son,” Mel predictably insisted, riling Brian.

“Let’s skip the argument, shall we?” Linds hastily interposed. “He’s our son, all three of ours.”

Melanie and Brian subsided with ill grace, but the brunet managed to block out everything except the scritch-scratch of Justin’s penil as he looked at his son. “Dada,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable distinctly.

“Mama,” Gus essayed, which wasn’t at all what Brian expected - or wanted.

“Fuck, no, I’m not a muncher,” a horrified Brian declared, staring at his son in bemusement.

Justin began laughing, while Linds gazed at Mel in drop-jawed amazement. “Did you hear that?” she asked in unison with her partner, who asked the same question at the same time.

“Traitor,” Brian accused his son, although by the pride in his voice, it was obvious he wasn’t truly upset.

“Jushun. Mama gah bub,” the little boy babbled.

“Okay, now you’ve got it right, Sonnyboy,” Brian confirmed. “Justin _is_ a lesbian.”

The teen just laughed harder, finding Brian’s attempt at asserting some control humorous. His ex knew very well he was anything but a lesbian. Shaking his head, Justin picked up the sketchbook he’d dropped during his laughing fit and began drawing again.

Brian narrowed his eyes at the chuckling teen, watching as the boy put pencil to paper, and his mood eased as he recalled Justin drawing _him_ on a different occasion and what it had led to…

The munchers’ living room faded away, to be replaced by his bed at the loft, Brian kneading massage oil into Justin’s shoulders as the teen moaned and squirmed beneath him.

“How about heading south a bit?” Justin suggested hopefully. “The small of my back really aches.”

“Your back?” Brian responded drily, digging his thumbs into the ridges of the blond’s spine. “That it?”

“Perhaps a bit further down…” Justin breathily murmured. “I _am_ kind of sore down there.”

The brunet chuckled evilly. “You’ll have to describe where it aches better than that, Sunshine.”

“Keep working your way downward,” Justin advised, turning his head to grin cheekily at his lover, “and I’ll tell you when you’ve reached the right spot."

“Here?” Brian asked, digging hard into the base of the boy’s spine. “This is where the small of your back is located, you know.”

“A bit further,” the blond begged, writhing on the sheets.

Brian was having a hard time stopping himself from wriggling too, excited by all that pale flesh sprawled across his eight-hundred-thread count navy sheets. His cock was sticking almost straight up, bobbing slightly, precome spilling from the slit. It was high time to provide it some relief, the brunet decided, teasingly trailing one finger along Justin’s crack. “Is that the right place?” he huskily inquired.

“Yeah,” the teen conceded, raising his ass in the air. “A bit more pressure, though.”

“Like this?” Brian tantalized Justin by adding just the slightest bit of pressure.

“More,” Justin panted, canting his arse further into the air.

Brian playfully slapped it before leaning down and worrying one cheek with his teeth.

“To the left a bit,” the teen gasped, sounding like he’d just run a marathon.

Brian obligingly swiped his tongue along that crevice, swirling the tip around Justin’s opening before withdrawing.

“Mmpfh,” Justin inarticulately moaned as Brian inserted one finger and then another into his hole.

The brunet smiled at the delectable sight, telling his pecker it just needed to hold on for a few more moments as he thoroughly stroked Justin’s prostate. “I wouldn’t want you to complain that your masseur did a subpar job,” he joked.

“Mmpfh,” the teen grumbled again, before managing to form a few words, “Now, Brian, I need you in me now.”

“Your wish is my command,” Brian asserted, momentarily terrified by how true that was.

Just as the brunet was pushing his dick into Justin’s ass, both men moaning in pleasure, a voice intruded, “Earth to Brian.”

“Huh?” Brian grunted in confusion as he groped about for the blond who’d just vanished from his bed.

“I asked if you’d like to bathe Lambskin,” Lindsay repeated, evidently for the second or third time.

The disorientated brunet blinked at his son in surprise.

“What were you thinking about so deeply?” Mel inquired, eyeing Brian suspiciously.

“Nothing important,” Brian tried to shake off the fantasy. Hoisting Gus in his arms, he stood and turned to Lindsay, awkwardly quipping, “I thought you’d eliminated the baby talk.”

The two friends bickered about whether or not pet names constituted baby talk as they ascended the stairs.

Meanwhile, Justin seethed, pissed at Brian for completely ignoring him. That the brunet could so casually dismiss him as unimportant brought home to the teen how little he mattered to the man these days.

“I’m going to head back to Debbie’s and see how Harley’s faring,” he informed Mel, attempting to shake off his deflated mood.

“Who’s Harley?” the lesbian asked, pecking him on the cheek. “New boyfriend?”

“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” Justin promised, shaking his head and smiling mysteriously.

“You scamp,” Melanie chided fondly as she followed him to the door.

He just had to forget Brian, the teen reminded himself after saying farewell to Mel, whistling _Let’s Hear It for the Boy_ as he walked over to Kinkos to copy the contract.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful budgie Harley II can be seen here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=17


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are easily triggered, there is a warning for this chapter. You can find it in the end notes :)

“Get your ass in here and close the door,” Debbie demanded when Brian arrived half an hour late for the weekly Sunday dinner, having rung the doorbell and then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

“You’d know, Sis,” Vic jested, ducking when Debbie swatted at him with a potholder.

“Well, I do have the tits,” she cackled, glancing down at her capacious bosom.

Brian hung up his coat before ambling over to the table, frowning when he discovered the only available seat would place him between Emmett and Justin.

Noticing this, Michael ordered, “Get up, Boy Wonder, and switch places with me. Brian doesn’t want to sit next to you.”

As much as he didn’t feel like sitting next to the blond, Brian didn’t like anyone talking for him. Plus, he _really_ had no desire to sit next to his best friend after Michael had barged into his office on Friday, jabbering about whatsherface from the Big Q. “No it’s fine. I don’t care where I sit,” he hastily interposed. When Michael started circling around the table anyway, he barked at him, “Sit!” and his best friend almost dropped to the floor right where he was.

Titters resounded from everyone else as Michael sheepishly reseated himself, casting a dark look Justin’s way. The adman surmised Michael blamed the teen for Brian’s ill temper, but he didn’t give a fuck as long as he didn’t have his friend glomming onto his arm, spewing crumbs all over his clubbing attire, and kvetching in his ear for the duration of the meal. Ignoring the pang of guilt at his thoughts, he turned his attention to the food-laden table.

“What is this?” Brian poked at the partially empty cheesy dish in the middle. There were two of the things, for fuck’s sake. Did everyone else actually want to consume so many carbohydrates, especially that late in the evening? He glanced around in disbelief, noting the enormous portions on everyone’s plates. “It looks like one of those rubbery, meat-free lesbian dishes,” he complained. “What’s the point if there’s no _meat_?”

“You’re right, Brian,” Michael seconded, spearing a small piece on a fork and turning towards a birdcage that stood on the sideboard behind the table with the intention of feeding the small blue animal inside.

“And what the heck is that?” Brian stared in distaste at the budgie. “A dookie machine?”

Michael giggled while Justin glared at the brunet, clenching his fists in his lap. Brian could say whatever he wanted about him, but how dare he disparage Harley?

“It’s a budgie, asshole,” the redheaded mother hen declared, one hand clamping down on Michael’s wrist while she addressed Brian. “And Harley II is a member of this family, so you’d better hold your tongue.” Then, lowering her voice, she chided, “Honey, you can’t feed a parakeet human food; he won’t be able to digest it.”

Michael countered, “It’s not human food; it’s lesbian food.”

Both Lindsay and Melanie were now glaring daggers at Michael. Debbie whacked her son with a serving spoon, chastising, “Be nice. That took a lot of work to cook.”

Whilst Michael rubbed at his head, moaning as if he’d been grievously hurt, Debbie informed Brian, “As for what it is, it’s eggplant parmesan and it’s fucking healthy, so you’d better eat some. You hear me?”

“Yeah, Ma,” Brian responded, rolling his eyes, even though he was now eying the food with considerably more interest. He did like eggplant.

“No eye rolling!” Debbie commanded.

Brian simply quirked an eyebrow at her unrepentantly, rolling his lips in, making it difficult for the redhead to suppress a smile of her own.

“You know, Brian,” Ted mused wryly as the brunet ladled eggplant and salad onto his plate, “I don’t know why you’re complaining. I’ve never actually seen you eat meat anyway, not even in the backroom.”

Before the adman could say a word, Michael loudly protested, “Brian’s a top! It’s his meat they eat…”

Emmett looked at his friend quizzically, “Is that some kind of Dr Seuss rhyme?”

“N- no,” the flustered man stuttered, “I just meant he gets sucked, but he doesn’t suck.”

“That still doesn’t make much sense, Sweetie,” Em noted.

“I mean sucking would be too much like bottoming,” Michael emphasized, throwing an admiring glance at Brian, apparently happy to have defended the stud’s status as the ultimate top.

Rather than remonstrate with his dim friend, Brian stuffed another bite of eggplant parmesan in his mouth, reflecting that it really wasn’t bad. He mustn't have kept his face entirely expressionless, however, since Linds shot him a speculative glance. Fuck, the brunet thought, he was likely to be subjected to an inquisition later on. What was it with the blondes in his life?

As he took yet another bite, Brian was shocked to realize he was already stuffing himself with his second helping. Glancing up at the clock, he consoled himself that it was only 6:45. Besides, there really weren’t that many carbs in the parmesan, right?

Returning to the previous topic, Michael complained, “Why’s everyone all excited over that damned bird anyhow? Like Brian said, all it’s gonna do is shit. It doesn’t even talk. Birds are useless.”

Pretending affront, Melanie joshed, “Linds and I are ‘birds’ too, and we talk plenty.”

“Yeah,” Brian snarked, “you always yack my ears off.”

“Hello?” Mel retorted, “how dare-” when she was suddenly interrupted by Harley chirping cheerfully, “ _Hello, Baby!_ ”

Justin jumped up from the table excitedly, trotting over to the parakeet. “What made you speak up, Buddy?” he asked, ringing one of the bells on Harley’s cage, but the budgie only tilted its head at the teen.

Debbie joined Justin in front the the birdcage. “Maybe he was responding to something Mel said,” she suggested. “Could be some kind of word prompt.”

The crowd around the cage grew as Mel and Linds squeezed in next to them.

“Hello?” the teen questioned.

“ _Hello, Baby_ ,” the budgie repeated, following the greeting with a series of garbled sounds.

“Oh!” Justin eagerly asserted, “I think Harley’s name used to be ‘Baby’. His previous owners must’ve greeted him like that.”

“Huh, you could be right,” the redhead opined. “He’ll soon adjust to his new, better name though. Won’t you, Harley?”

Justin and Debbie grinned at each other, already planning not only to change the budgie’s name but also to increase his vocabulary. Meanwhile, Michael slouched in his seat, pouting, not at all interested in the parakeet.

“Come on, Honey, buck up,” Emmett advised, patting his friend on the shoulder on the way back to his chair, having just taken a close-up gander of his own at Harley.

“It’s partly Tracy,” Michael excused his bad mood. “I’m still afraid she’s gonna out me at the Big Q.”

“For fuck’s sake, Michael,” Vic interjected, “we talked about this for an hour last night. That young woman’s not going to give you away now when she hasn’t before. Brian’s right about that,” he stated, nodding at the brunet in acknowledgment, before adding, “but I do believe you should think about coming out, so you don’t have to obsess about it any longer.”

Michael only scowled some more, not looking the least bit appeased, so Em diverted his attention from the topic of coming out by asking, “What’s the other reason for your theatrics?”

“It’s David,” Michael mumbled sullenly, crossing his arms and suddenly clamming up.

“What’s up with the doc?” Debbie screeched. “You didn’t already do something to drive him away after Brian got you back together, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Michael defended himself. “We’re really happy.”

“Then, what’s the problem?” Lindsay asked.

“Well, I’ve agreed to move in with David,” Michael divulged, “but he outright declared that he doesn’t want any of my superhero decor cluttering his house. I don’t get it,” Michael expounded, looking at his friends for sympathy, “those are sought-after collectibles.”

“I wouldn’t want to wake up to a blow-up Captain Astro doll floating above my bed either,” Ted drily acknowledged. “Dr Dave may have a point.”

“Sweetie,” Emmett suggested, “since you have so many valuables - both here and at our apartment - you should get them appraised so you can insure them properly. And then maybe sell some of them.”

“You should think about opening an online store on eBay,” Ted recommended. “You could sell some of the excess there, and make a pretty penny.”

“But I don’t want to sell anything!” Michael yelled. “It’s taken me years and years to acquire all my collectibles. In fact, I just saw a Batman figurine tha-”

“Honey,” Debbie interrupted, “you already can’t display all the items you have. That’s why you have so many of them stored here. You don’t want to drive a wedge between yourself and David because of all your comic book paraphernalia, do you? Maybe you could just keep a few of the things that mean the most to you. I’m sure David wouldn’t mind having one or two of them as decorations, as long as they don’t overtake his house.”

“Like they’ve overtaken our apartment…” Em muttered, before enthusing, “Teddy’s idea of opening your own eBay store is good one. Just think, you’d be a self-employed businessman.”

Michael’s mulish expression didn’t alter as he stubbornly maintained, “There’s not one thing I could bear to part with.” He turned to Brian, beseeching, “What do you think?”

“What they said,” Brian recommended, his disinterest evident. He didn’t see the point in giving his opinion when Michael had gotten stroppy over his efforts to help him out with Tracy.

Michael opened his mouth to protest some more, but Melanie cut him off, apparently tired of hearing about the man’s issues with relationships and comic book collectibles. “Gus is talking so much better these days,” she claimed, reaching out to ruffle the tyke’s hair. “Maybe there really is something to not using baby talk.”

“Yes,” a beaming Lindsay bragged, “he said ‘Mama’ for the first time yesterday.”

Debbie shrugged doubtingly, reiterating her stance from the last Sunday dinner, “Well, _my_ boy turned out just fine.”

Brian smirked to himself when he caught Melanie rolling her eyes at Lindsay. Next to him, Justin coughed into his napkin, hiding a grin of his own.

Suddenly, shocking everyone, Gus burst out exuberantly, “Dada!” pumping his arms up and down and looking very pleased with himself.

Brian shot a smug look at the munchers, his face acquiring the same smug expression as his son.

A miffed Melanie set the little nipper on her lap, coaxing, “Forget Dada. Come on, Sweetie, say ‘Mama’,” but Gus only burbled, “Dada!” again.

“Here, let me take him,” Brian offered, his delight evident in his sparkling hazel eyes.

“What makes you think he was calling _you_ ‘Dada’?” teased Lindsay. “He might have been talking about Justin.”

“Why would you think that?” Michael carped. “Justin’s not Gus’ father.”

“Well,” Lindsay went on to explain, “not exactly, but Justin spends so much time with Gussy, he is practically as much of a father to him as Brian.”

“More,” Melanie muttered. When she discerned the ire in Brian’s gaze, she amended, “Time. He spends more time with Gus.”

“Wait till dinner is over, Brian,” Lindsay placated. “I know Gus would love for his ‘Dada’ to hold him.”

Somewhat mollified, Brian relaxed in his seat, listening to his friends chatter, as Debbie served up plates of struffoli. Brian waved away the plate she held out to him - claiming it had far too many carbs - but a few minutes later, he snatched a piece off Justin’s plate without even realizing what he’d done.

Debbie and Justin both noticed, but they merely exchanged grins, neither saying a word - even letting Brian sneak a couple more of the sweet dough balls off the blond’s plate.

 

Once they were all finished eating, Justin and Emmett helped Debbie clear the table, while everyone else retired to the living room. Mel and Lindz cuddled up together on the couch, finally letting Brian hold his son, and Michael and Ted joined them on the comfy sofa. Meanwhile, Vic sat in his usual armchair, leaving the other one free for Debbie, and when Justin and Emmett were done with their chores, they carried in their kitchen chairs so they’d have somewhere to sit.

As he sipped at his frothy beer, Emmett turned to Justin. “Baby, what’s the latest with your torched locker?” he asked, curious. “Did you end up going to the police?”

“Uh, yeah, on Friday after my shift,” the teenager replied, stuttering slightly.

“What prompted you to go to the police?” Ted inquired. “You seemed to think the locker incident and your black eye weren’t enough.”

“Um, I met with St. James’ principal on Friday morning,” Justin related, “and he made it clear that the school won’t do anything to help me. Dr Jerkins actually suggested he’d be reporting me to the police for vandalizing my own locker.”

“What?” an outraged Emmett shouted, unable to say anything else for a moment.

“Black eye?” Lindsay queried, looking at the blond in concern.

“Torched locker?” Melanie growled. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing any of this? Why haven’t you asked me for legal advice?”

Justin felt like he was the cynosure of everyone’s eyes; the worst of it was that Brian seemed to be staring at him contemptuously. “Going to the police seemed like the correct first step,” he explained, “just like Deb and Vic initially urged me to do. I’ve gotten to know Detective Horvath, the policeman who’s investigating the burglary at the loft, a little bit since he stops in at the diner sometimes.” Justin studiously avoided looking at Brian as he said that, knowing what a sore topic it still was for the brunet.

“What’d he advise?” Emmett inquired.

“I talked to both him and his partner, Detective Wen,” the teen revealed, not noticing Brian shrinking back into his chair at the mention of that name. “Detective Horvath is going to call Perkins, the headmaster, after the break and discuss the locker incident, and all the bullying, with him. If Jerkins doesn’t see sense, Detective Wen’s going to pay the school a visit. She’s scary,” Justin concluded.

“I’m glad you finally did the right thing, Kiddo,” Vic commended the teen, everyone else echoing him.

Even Michael muttered something like, “Good for you.”

“Did the detectives say anything about whether you need a lawyer?” Melanie asked.

“Detective Horvath wanted to try talking to Perkins first,” Justin answered. “He’s hoping I won’t need a lawyer. That’s unless Jerkins reports me to the police for vandalizing my own locker, of course.”

“It’s good that Melanie knows about the situation,” Lindsay inserted. “That way she can be ready to defend you, if needed.”

“You keep me updated, okay?” Mel asked. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Justin nodded in assent, “I know I should have told you sooner.”

“Baby, I’m confused,” Em interjected, “what _is_ the principal’s name? You keep changing it.”

“Uh, it’s Perkins, but I call him Jerkins because I think it suits him better,” Justin admitted, making everyone chuckle.

“If those coppers don’t manage to deal with Jerkins,” Deb declared, “I’m going to go read him the riot act myself.”

Brian mumbled, “With Wen on the case, it’s likely Jerkins will run for the hills in terror…”

Vic teased, “What, Brian, are you scared of a woman?”

The brunet didn’t bother to deny the allegation.

“Women _are_ scary,” Ted quipped.

“We fucking are,” Deb and Mel confirmed, with the redhead chanting, “Hear me roar!”

“Let’s talking about something besides St. James and Jerkins,” Justin requested. “It’s Thanksgiving break, so I don’t have to deal with homophobic administrators, teachers, or jocks for a whole week.”

“I know,” Emmett clapped his hands, “why don’t we play a game?”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Debbie imparted, “we’re going to have a checkers tournament at the diner on New Year’s Day. Sunshine had the great idea of purchasing some boards for us to keep at the diner - something fun for customers to do.”

“I’ll have to brush up on my skills then,” Ted claimed, an eager glint in his eyes. “I used to be quite good.”

“I don’t need to brush up,” Brian snorted, “since I won’t be playing.” He glanced down at Gus, who had grabbed a fistful of the brunet’s red shirt, “Right, Sonnyboy? Checkers are stupid.”

The young nipper gave his father a gummy smile, exclaiming happily, “Dada!” as he waved his free hand.

Brian pulled his son’s pudgy fingers away from his shirt, thinking he was going to have to make another trip to the Armani store.

“Ha!” Debbie joked, “You’re just scared you’d lose, Brian. If you’ve ever seen Kiki play, you know the tranny will trounce you.”

“Not likely,” Brian huffed.

“What kind of games _do_ you enjoy?” Ted drily inquired. “Except for tricking, that is?”

His attention on Gus, Brian unthinkingly responded, “Scrabble.”

“That’s it!” Debbie exclaimed, “We’ll play Scrabble. Sunshine, would you grab the board?”

While they were waiting for Justin to come back with  the game, the redhead pointed out, “There’s so many of us that we should form teams. I’ll play with Vic.”

“I call dibs on Brian,” Ted announced. “I remember he was an unstoppable juggernaut the last time we played.”

“We’ll be a team,” Melanie offered, Lindsay nodding in agreement.

“Team Lesbian,” Ted joshed.

“You’re scared of women for good reason,” Mel warned.

“I’ll keep score,” Emmett volunteered. “You should have a neutral party for that.”

“That leaves you and Michael as teammates,” Debbie informed Justin when he returned with the game.

Neither man looked particularly pleased by that notion, but they were stuck as partners if they wanted to play.

Linds and Mel went first, after drawing the letter ‘A’. Mel frowned down at their letters before finally starting the game off with the ‘ass’.

“That’s it?” Ted goggled at the short word.

“We got a for-shit draw,” Mel irritably replied.

“A fine ass is essential for a nelly bottom like me,” Emmett jested, “so don’t go disparaging that three-letter gem.” He then jotted down the score, noting aloud, “Six points.”

“We can improve on that,” Brian smirked, adding ‘hole’ after ‘ass’. “Now it looks right,” he decreed. “One of my favorite things.”

Everyone burst out laughing before a competitive game ensued. Mel turned out to be a very competent player as the letters on their rack improved.

Vic wore a smug smile, as he spelled out ‘fuck’, the ‘k’ landing on a triple letter score.

“Twenty-three points for us,” Deb gloated.

Justin, meanwhile, was getting more and more frustrated. Michael was proving to be too much of a handicap for them to compete with the other teams. He kept placing simple words on the board before the teen could stop him, his highest-scoring contribution being the word ‘cat’, with none of the letters so much as landing on a double letter square.

Linds giggled when she placed an ‘s’ in front of ‘cat’, causing most of the others to moan.

Michael, though, praised her, “Great word, Linds.”

As the game was nearing its culmination, Justin glanced at his watch. “Sorry, but I need to go,” he declared, looking apologetically at the rest of the gang. Fortunately, no one asked him why, probably assuming he was meeting Daphne.

“No problem,” Michael actually smiled at the blond. “I’ve got this under control.”

The teen rolled his eyes as he dashed upstairs for his backpack. Did Michael actually think they were winning? he wondered.

“We’re gonna win,” Deb chortled, rubbing her hands together a few minutes later.

“Mmm, no you’re not,” Ted dissented, adding ‘tard’ beneath ‘fuck’. “Fucktard,” he enunciated carefully, clearly enjoying the way the word rolled off his tongue.

“That’s only thirteen points,” Deb mumbled, “not a single double-letter or triple-letter score in the bunch. Vic and I still won, didn’t we, Em?”

The scorekeeper hastily double-checked his calculations before shrugging at Debbie. “Soz, Team Schminney won by two points.”

“I knew it,” Ted smugly claimed. “I was keeping the tally in my head.”

“Team Schminney,” Brian snorted. “Whateverthefuck.” Slinging an arm around Ted’s shoulders, he invited, “Listen, why don’t you come by the loft tomorrow evening for drinks?”

Both Ted and Michael stared at Brian in shock, albeit for different reasons.

Ted gaped at Brian, mouthing, “Me?”

“Yeah,” Brian confirmed. “The Schmidt half of the winning Scrabble team. I’ll share some more of that booze you enjoyed drinking at Michael’s birthday do.”

“I thought we cleaned you out,” a beaming Ted remarked.

“I’ve replenished my stock since all you thirsty queers visited,” Brian retorted.

“Must’ve done it first thing the next day,” Michael muttered sourly.

Ignoring his sulking best friend, who was undoubtedly out of sorts because Brian rarely had anyone except him over to the loft, Brian announced, “I’m off,” and headed toward Babylon.

 

Brian took a deep breath as he entered the gay club that evening and smirked. The smell of clean sweat, alcohol, and sex felt like home, and the rhythmically pulsating crowd welcomed him with open arms. He felt like he hadn’t been to Babylon in forever, and it was time to rectify that.

Looking around, the brunet stud assessed the night’s options. The pickings were slim, he thought in displeasure; he’d already had many of the attractive tricks, and the ugly ones he didn’t want. Making his way through the crowd, Brian’s eyes flitted across the faces and bodies around him, his hands sliding and patting and groping at cocks and arses.

“Hey, stud,” drawled a trick whose butt he’d just squeezed. “I can blow you in the backroom.”

The brunet sized him up, eyeing the guy’s abs thoughtfully. He wasn’t bad looking - tall, slim, black hair, tanned skin, and a healthy-looking face. “Ok,” he shrugged noncommittally and strode to the backroom, certain the trick was following him.

Once in the darkened room, amongst sighs and grunts and whimpers of arousal, Brian leaned against a wall and loosened his jeans. He motioned for the trick to kneel in front of him and then closed his eyes to enjoy the blowjob.

He hmmed in satisfaction as the head of his cock was enveloped in wet warmth. The bloke was good, alternating teasing at Brian’s slit and swallowing his whole length. An involuntary grunt left the brunet’s throat as the trick swallowed in a particularly pleasant way.

And to think he had started to believe he would never be able to enjoy this again after the horribly unsatisfying encounters of the past two weeks. It seemed that the curse of Justin Taylor had been finally lifted. He gasped as his whole length was swallowed again, the warm breath of the trick fanning over Brian’s trimmed pubic hair. Fuck Justin, he thought as his dick twitched in preparation for an orgasm; he had no problems enjoying himself without the blond.

“Aah,” he gasped again, his back bowing as release suddenly caught up to him. “Fuck.”

The kneeling black-haired man swallowed everything Brian had to give, before looking up at him with a smug smile on his face. The brunet stud raised one eyebrow, shrugging. “What are you looking at?” he questioned. “It was alright.”

The trick looked a little offended at the dismissive words, but Brian didn’t care. He tucked himself back in and, not even glancing at his trick, left the backroom. He felt like getting a drink to celebrate his newfound independence from the blond twink.

“Beam,” he ordered once he’d made it to the bar, gesturing to the barman that he wanted a double.

The man nodded, turning around to reach for the bottle of bourbon and giving Brian a nice view of his arse in the process. The adman accepted the glass with a lewd smirk - it _was_ a nice arse after all - but then turned around to watch the dance floor. Shagging the man responsible for his drinks wouldn’t exactly be a good idea with his habit of leaving his tricks in a rather abrupt and harsh manner.

His gaze was sliding across writhing bodies - pupils dilating at the sight of so many muscular forms glistening with sweat - when his brain registered a familiar sight on top of one of the go-go platforms. He focused on the pale expanse of a hairless chest, the thick muscled thighs, the slim arms and long fingers, the beautiful bubble butt…

What the hell was Justin doing dancing on that fucking table? Surely the blond hadn’t ignored his advice and gone and become a go-go boy? Not even Justin was stupid enough to go through with that.

Angry, both at his advice having been disregarded and at being blindsided by the whole situation, Brian strode over to the dancing teenager. Catching Justin’s eye, he hissed at him, “What are you doing, Justin? Get off the table!”

The blond threw him an incredulous look. “I have five minutes till my break,” he informed him, his hips still gyrating in the rhythm of _Don’t Stop Moving_.

Brian grabbed the boy’s arm, literally dragging him off the dance platform. “I said, get down!” he whispered in the younger man’s ear harshly.

Justin ripped his arm out of Brian’s hold, his face angry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You want to get me fired on the first day?”

“Yes!” the brunet spat. “That’s exactly what I want to do. I thought I told you this was a bad idea.”

“You did,” agreed Justin, stepping around Brian and climbing back up on the table. “But you’re not my boyfriend anymore, so you have no actual say in this,” he finished.

It was then that Brian realised the way he’d been acting was attracting attention. He needed to backtrack, fast. “I was _never_ your boyfriend, Sunshine,” he insisted, feeling uncomfortable as the men around them kept watching the scene unfold.

Justin gave him a bright smile - as fake as it was big - and shrugged, starting to gyrate his hips again. “All the more reason for you to leave me alone.”

Hating how the blond’s words made him sound like some kind of obsessive stalker, Brian abruptly turned around and left in a huff. Fucking brat, he thought in anger, making him look like an idiot in front of all these people. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach as he made his way back to the bar, prompting Brian to order another glass of Beam. Maybe if he drank enough of the amber liquid, the uncomfortable emptiness in his gut would fill up with alcohol and he’d feel better.

“Bad night?” asked the bartender when Brian threw back a third glass of bourbon a couple minutes later.

The brunet gave him a scathing look. “Leave out the unnecessary jabber and pour me another one,” he ordered. It wasn’t a bad night, thought Brian as he watched Justin shaking his arse up on the dance platform; it was a great night. A night to get totally slaughtered on expensive booze and maybe even do a bit of Molly to get the mood just right.

Ignoring the unwelcome arousal at the sight of his former lover’s pelvis thrusting obscenely, the brunet poured the fourth glass down his throat and went in search of his usual dealer. It took him more than fifteen minutes to find Anita, by which point Justin had had his break and gone back on the table.

Brian bought his usual two tabs of E, letting them both dissolve in his mouth in the span of the next half an hour - washing down each of them with a couple glasses of Beam. By the time he’d finally managed to forget the twink blond, he was completely pissed and tweaked out of his head.

Suddenly feeling horny, Brian assessed the dancing crowd, looking for a passable trick. His gaze quickly focused on a tall brunet with a muscular build - a little beefier than his usual type, but he’d do - and he decided to saunter over to him. Only years of practice prevented him from stumbling and falling on his arse as he weaved through the writhing bodies, his cerebellum struggling to fight off the effects of alcohol.

“Let’s fuck,” he whispered in his prey’s ear as soon as he reached him.

The guy looked him up and down, smirking. “Hell yeah,” he agreed enthusiastically, following Brian into the backroom.

The ad exec leaned against a wall just as he had earlier that evening, determined to enjoy himself again. He watched through hooded eyes as his chosen trick kneeled down in front of him, undoing Brian’s belt buckle. A soft whine coming from an enthusiastically kissing couple to his right distracted him for a second, but seeing as neither of the men was anything close to his type, he quickly refocused on his current fuck.

The guy wasn’t as good at giving head as Brian’s first trick of the night, but he was decent enough - his mouth warm, his teeth covered, and his gag reflex under control. The brunet sighed in pleasure, starting to really enjoy himself as his brain floated on a cloud of intoxication, when suddenly there was an unwelcome pressure between his cheeks.

Brian’s whole body jerked, his muscles tightening unpleasantly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he slurred at his trick, while the idiot’s finger probed at Brian’s arse. Just because Justin had managed to worm his way in there, didn’t mean that he would let any ordinary trick breach his most private space.

The guy looked up, pulling his mouth off Brian’s dick. “I wanna fuck you,” he said, shrugging casually.

Brian scoffed, shoving the guy’s inquisitive hand away from his backside. “Keep dreaming,” he spat at him. “If there’s any fucking happening tonight, it’ll be _my_ dick in _your_ tight ass.”

The guy just smirked, clearly not getting the message like Brian had expected he would, and pushed his fingers once more between the adman’s cheeks.

Brian’s heartbeat quickened as adrenaline flooded his system in a typical fight or flight response. He pushed at the guy’s shoulders, trying to create some space between them, but his assailant didn’t even budge. “Didn’t you hear me?” Brian asked, his voice sounding a little hysterical to his ears. He uselessly tried shoving the trick again.

The fingers were now brushing his entrance and Brian could feel himself panicking. He was starting to realise very quickly that as drunk and tweaked as he was, he had no chance to fight the muscled guy off. “Get off me, you fucking prick,” he tried once more.

“Hey!” came a voice from his right. “Leave the guy alone.”

Brian turned his head, finding the couple that had been snogging against the wall next to him watching his struggle. The one who’d intervened was a slim, reddish-blond bloke, no older than Brian.

Brian’s trick stood up, one hand still possessively on the adman’s bum, and looked down at the ginger. “Oh yeah?” he challenged. “What are you gonna do about it if I don’t?”

The interrupting guy slung an arm around his partner - a very fashionably dressed, balding fifty-year-old - and grinned. “Then my _marine_ lover here is gonna kick your ass,” he explained.

The marine tilted his head. “And I’d _really_ rather not do that,” he intoned flamboyantly. “I was quite enjoying myself before you so rudely interrupted with your obvious misconduct.”

Brian’s assailant snorted. “Right. I have a different suggestion,” he told the redhead. “Why don’t you keep your conk out of my business, and I’ll let you get back to snogging grandpa here,” he finished, motioning to the suit-clad marine.

Brian saw the younger man raise an eyebrow at his partner, prompting him with a quietly uttered, “Raymond,” but whatever happened next was way too fast for his compromised brain to comprehend - all he knew was that the fingers probing at his ass were suddenly gone and the imbecilic trick had his smug face smushed against the wall, courtesy of the marine.

The trick tried fighting against the strong hold but he was as helpless as Brian had been just a few seconds ago. “Let me go,” he grunted.

The marine leaned closer and spoke in a low voice, “Did you know that on the side of your neck, here,” he ran a finger alongside the idiot’s neck, “is a carotid artery, which carries oxygen-enriched blood from the heart to your brain? If I press against it just right, I can obstruct the blood flow just enough to render you unconscious within eight to thirteen seconds.” He paused meaningfully, before continuing lightheartedly, “Or, I suppose, you could simply walk out of here on your own.”

The trick suddenly looked a bit pale. “I’m leaving,” he gasped. “I swear, as soon as you let me go, I’m gone.”

The marine nodded, releasing the guy’s arms with a smile. “Good,” he exclaimed cheerfully, the threatening man from a few seconds ago once again becoming the slightly flamboyant ‘grandpa’. “That was easy, wasn’t it? Now, who wants a drink?” he asked, following the departing trick out of the backroom.

The strawberry blond shook his head, turning to Brian. “He’s such a drama queen,” he commented fondly. “He’s not actually like that, you know?”

Brian shrugged, not really caring.

“You ok?” the guy asked him. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

The brunet frowned. “No,” he denied. “I’m fine.”

The concerned man nodded before sighing, “Ok, well, I’m gonna go and find Raymond before he decides to _actually_ torture someone.”

Brian just ignored him as the redhead left. His hands were shaking with leftover adrenaline as he buttoned up his jeans and straightened up his shirt.

When he exited the backroom, Brian noticed Ted, Emmett, and Michael standing at the bar, but he didn’t feel up to dealing with them. The three friends were placing their drink orders, fortunately facing away from him, and didn’t notice Brian as he hastily moved past the bar on his way out.

The brunet lurched as he walked out the front door, having to grab onto the door jamb in order to steady himself. The sympathetic response of his nervous system was warring with the effects of drugs and alcohol, and as a result, Brian felt horrible - drained and wired at the same time.

Oscar held up his hand to signal the clubgoers awaiting admission to hold on for a moment, quietly asking, “You want me to call you a cab, Kinney?”

“It’s not necessary,” Brian replied, as he saw a taxi cab pull up in front of the club and disgorge its passengers. He walked over to the car, weaving a bit, causing the driver to stress in a thick southern accent, “No ride, man, if you’re gonna puke in my cab.”

“I won’t,” the brunet promised, hoping he could keep his word. He’d have normally walked home, letting the air help clear his head, if he hadn’t been concerned that he might pass out along the way. The thought that the trick who’d tried to assault him might be lingering nearby also nagged at him.

When the taxi pulled up in front of his building no more than five minutes later, Brian threw a twenty at the driver - not caring that the amount was excessive, simply glad to be home. Paying no heed to the man’s astounded “Thanks!” he hurried into the building, stumbling up the stairs because he was too impatient to wait for elevator.

After getting into the loft, he slammed the door shut and immediately set the alarm, a feeling of _safety_ enveloping him. Brian ripped off his clothes, letting them drop to the floor, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, downing it in one go. He then staggered to his bed and fell onto it, too enervated to get under the covers. His muscles were still trembling but he had no strength to even lift his head anymore.

He vowed to himself that he would never tell anyone about the incident - it wasn’t like anything had really happened to him - but that he would make sure never to get so drunk again while he was alone at the club. It wasn’t worth it. On that thought, he passed out for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted assault.


	19. Chapter 19

Justin woke up with a big smile on his face and a song on his lips. He kept humming _Let the Sunshine In_ and _Don’t Worry, Be Happy_ alternatively, feeling like he was in a Folgers coffee commercial.

“Hello, Harley,” he greeted the blue budgie as he lifted the cover off the cage.

“Hello, Baby,” the parakeet chirped at the teen.

Justin quickly checked the paper towel lining the bottom of the cage to make sure it wasn’t too soiled, and also that the little guy had plenty of food and water for the day.

“Don’t worry,” Vic reassured him from the kitchen table, “Harley and I will get along famously, and I’ll make sure he’s well taken care of.”

Justin nodded in thanks, humming a few more bars about letting the sunshine in.

“What’s with the jolly mood?” Debbie asked him.

Justin grinned. “No school,” he carrolled, “not for an entire week.”

“You only realized that just now?” Vic joked. “How’re you going to manage the SAT you told us is coming up in a few weeks?”

“Plenty of time to ‘bone up’ before then,” the teen retorted, stressing the sexual innuendo and earning identical grins from the siblings.

“They should have been testing for that in my day,” Debbie reflected. “I’d have been the first Grassi to ace the aptitude exam.”

“Mmm, what is that?” Justin inquired, rubbing his growling stomach and following the enticing aroma to Debbie, who was stirring something on the cooker.

“A potato, egg, and cheese scramble,” the motherly redhead replied, grinning when the blond’s tummy emitted a particularly loud rumble. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit yourself down at the table. It’ll be ready soon.”

“Hurry it up, Sis,” Vic requested when his belly started a competitive duet with Justin’s. “That smells delish.”

“Here it is, boys,” Deb announced moments later, carrying the cast-iron skillet over to the table and placing it on a colorful rooster trivet. “Dig in.”

There was no conversation for the next fifteen minutes, just moans of appreciation, slurping sounds as they drank their coffee, and the clanking of silverware against plates.

“Fuck, Debs, that really hit the spot,” Vic praised, folding his hands over his slightly distended belly.

“It sure did,” Justin concurred. “Now I’ll have the energy to deal with any hair-pulling queens at the diner,” he jested, recalling the Great Wig Debate from the previous day.

“So who won?” Vic asked after they’d filled him in on the wig contretemps. “Beckham or Bardot?”

“It was a draw,” Deb chortled, “although I won’t be surprised if they take a poll to determine who’s right.”

As Justin was carrying the dishes over to the sink, Vic ordered, “Leave ’em there, Sunshine. I’ll take care of the washing-up.”

“Have fun with our Harley,” the redhead directed, bussing Vic on the cheek as she and Justin headed out the door for their shift at the diner.

“I’ll work on his trash talk,” the older man assured them, a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

 

When eleven-thirty arrived, Debbie suggested, “Take a load off, Kiddo. The diner’s not nearly as insane today as it was over the weekend, and you must need to refuel by now. After all, it’s been nearly five hours since breakfast.”

“I am feeling a bit peckish,” Justin admitted, a telltale rumbling from his stomach underscoring his statement.

“Pour yourself something to drink, and I’ll see what Fahad has ready to dish up,” his surrogate mother encouraged.

After glancing around to make sure the redhead wouldn’t be left shorthanded if he took a break, Justin trotted to the breakroom and dug his sketchbook out of his bag, before pouring himself a glass of Coke and settling into an empty booth. His pencil flew across the page, the antagonists from the Great Wig Debate rapidly coming to life.

“Fahad just finished grilling some _chenje_ \- Iranian shish kebab - and tomatoes,” Deb announced, setting a plate next to the teen. “So put away your sketchpad and eat while it’s nice and hot.”

As Justin started to close the pad, she requested, “Wait a sec and lemme see that.” Eyeing the drawing, she began laughing at the caricatures. “You sure pegged those two queens, Honey. Why, you ought to submit this to a magazine like _The New Yorker_.”

“Maybe I’ll be good enough for that someday,” Justin shrugged off her suggestion. “I’m just having a bit of fun.”

“ _Out_ magazine then,” the redhead laughed. “I could supply the captions, and we’d soon have an entire series of cartoons about life on Liberty Avenue.”

“Where the fuck’s my lunch?” an irate customer shouted at that moment, interrupting Deb’s pitch. “I just had a shave, but I can already feel the stubble, I’ve been waiting so long.”

“Then you can wait till your beard reaches the floor,” Debbie yelled back, before trotting over to the kitchen window.

“Fahad, where’s Stubble Cheeks’ food?” the redhead called out.

“Is that the dickwad who wanted his steak well done, his green beans ever-so-slightly steamed, and his lettuce crisp?” the chef asked, coming up to the pass-through and glaring at the man. “He’s been issuing new instructions on how he wants his meal prepared every five minutes.” Fahad then grinned conspiratorially at Deb and whispered something in her ear.

Justin watched avidly as she carried the plate over to Mr Stubble’s table, where she loudly proclaimed, “Bessie says, ‘Moo!’” The man jumped back as blood dripped from the very rare steak, gazing in disbelief at the limp, overcooked beans and wilted lettuce.

“I’m not paying for this… garbage,” Stubble Cheeks snarled, before stomping toward the door in high dudgeon.

Everyone burst out laughing, with comments like, “Good riddance!” and “Come back when you’ve grown a beard!” yelled after the man as he exited the eatery.

Fahad shook his clasped heads over his head like a winning prizefighter, as Deb made her way back to a giggling Justin.

“Here, Sunshine, this is for you,” she declared, pulling a white envelope out of her apron and handing it to the teen.

“What is it?” the puzzled blond asked.

“Open it and find out,” Debbie suggested, smiling fondly at Justin.

“Oh, this is brill!” Justin exclaimed, after tearing open the envelope. “My first paycheck!” He jumped up and gave Debs an exuberant hug.

“For your first two weeks of work,” Deb confirmed, planting a lipsticky kiss on the teen’s forehead.

The blond could feel excitement thrumming through his veins. As Deb had indicated when she’d hired him, he earned far more in tips than from his hourly pay, but this was tangible proof that he was inching toward his goal of repaying Brian. “If I endorse the check over to you - like Mel advised - can you deposit it today?” Justin excitedly questioned.

“You betcha,” Deb instantly replied, before teasing, “Take a moment to breathe, Sunshine, or you’re gonna hyperventilate.”

Justin grinned at his surrogate mother as he re-seated himself in the booth, absently chewing a chunk of kebab. “Make sure you keep fifty dollars from the check,” he instructed, “since that’s the amount you lent me on my first day.”

“Okay, Kiddo,” Deb responded.

“Oh, I need to give you the bulk of my tip money for you to deposit, too,” the teen jabbered, again forgetting about his lunch.

“Eat,” the waitress laughingly chastised, “you can give me your tip money later. I won’t go to the bank till my shift is over.”

The afternoon flew by after that, both Justin and Debbie chatting with the customers as they processed their orders. The teen was becoming familiar with some of the regulars and knew exactly how they wanted their coffee, tea, milkshake, or soda prepared. When he handed them their drinks with one of his trademark grins, he almost always earned a smile - and then a large tip - in return.

 

“Hey up!” Daphne greeted her bestie when she breezed into the diner at fifteen past three that afternoon.

Justin looked up from the table he was busing, smiling and calling out, “I’ll be with you now in a minute, Daph.”

“Sorry, I’m late,” she apologized when he bustled over moments later. “I had to wait till my mom could drop me off. Why’re you still working anyway? I thought you were off at three o’clock.”

“Harry’s running late, so I agreed to help Kiki till he gets here,” Justin explained. “No biggie.”

“Such a responsible and reliable young man,” Daph solemnly intoned, causing Justin to swipe at her with the dishrag he was holding. The girl giggled, asking, “Can I get a bite before we go anywhere? I’m famished.”

“Sure thing,” Justin responded. “It’s been a while since I ate, so I could do with a snack myself.”

“What, all of an hour?” Daph teased, archly raising her eyebrows.

“At least three hours!” the blond protested.

Harry rushed through the door right then, apologizing profusely and thanking Justin for covering for him.

A bit later, as they munched on the fried cod and onion rings Harry had just delivered to their table, Daphne inquired, “So what’s the plan for this afternoon?”

“Mmm,” Justin moaned, biting down and then sucking the onion out of one of the rings before crunching the crispy covering.

“That looks…” his friend trailed off, at a rare loss for words as she watched him.

“Was I being gross?” Justin asked, somewhat concerned. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of eating like Michael again.”

“N- no, not gross,” Daphne muttered, flushing and averting her eyes. “It was just kinda… obscene, in a really intriguing way,” she admitted.

Justin stared at his friend, flummoxed. How could eating an onion ring be obscene? he wondered. Then he considered how he’d sucked the onion out and turned red himself. Too bad it was too late to see what effect that would have on Brian… “Um, well, speaking of obscene. I’ve set aside a bit of cash to shop for toys,” the blond ventured, “and one of the places I want to go is sorta a combo of both sexy _and_ obscene.”

“Count me in!” Daph enthused, not waiting for Justin to say where they’d be heading.

“Ehm, are you sure?” Justin queried, “I’m going to visit The Promised Land here on Liberty Avenue.”

“Eww,” Daphne sat back, a look of disgust on her face. “That sounds like the headquarters for some kind of fundamentalist religious cult.”

Justin snorted the Coke he’d just sipped out of his nose - something that was becoming a habit around his bestie. “No, you numbskull, it’s a sex store. Remember that red dildo I got as a tip my first day as a busboy?”

When Daphne nodded, he elucidated, “I was able to return it to The Promised Land because it still had the store sticker on it and was encased in the original factory packaging, netting me forty dollars. Together with my other tips and the remainder of the money Debbie lent me that morning, I was able to buy my makeshift uniform and some other necessities. I really hated having to return the dildo…” He grinned wickedly as he eyed his fascinated friend, who was hanging on every word, finishing with a flourish, “...because a dildo is a gay boy’s best friend.”

“You’re gonna replace it today?” Daphne squealed, blushing furiously.

“Yep. You still want to come with me?” Justin asked, an amused glint in his blue eyes.

“Heck, yeah,” Daph insisted, although he could tell it was partly bravado.

“Then, I want to buy a toy for Harley,” he declared.

“Harley? Who’s that? You’ve never mentioned him before. Did you go on a date - without telling me?” The girl didn’t even take a breath as she bombarded her friend with questions.

Once he’d stopped laughing, Justin clarified, “Harley is a budgie, the second bearer of that name. When Vic, Deb, and I were cleaning out their attic, we uncovered a really neat birdcage, and the two of them reminisced about the blue budgie Debbie used to have. I never had a pet growing up, so I thought a parakeet - one I could name after Deb’s - would be a perfect first pet.

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Daphne interjected.

It _was_ kinda sweet, but rather than say that, the blond simply continued, “Yesterday, Debbie and I went to the Sequoia Humane Society and - Voila! - there was Harley II.”

“You don’t even have a photo to show me, do you?” pouted Daphne.

“Tell you what… why don’t you come with me after we finish shopping?” Justin suggested. “You can meet Harley, have dinner with us, and be properly introduced to Vic.”

“You mean for longer than it takes him to hand you his Babylon ID?” joked Daph. “I still can’t believe the bouncer let both of us in, based solely on that.”

Justin revealed, “I’ve discovered they’re pretty relaxed about letting underage teens into the club - better than having them go elsewhere and get into serious trouble - but they do card rigorously when it comes to alcohol.”

“You haven’t had any problem getting drinks,” his friend countered.

Justin nodded in acknowledgement, “Not when someone else buys for me. So, whaddya say… want to have dinner at Deb and Vic’s house?”

“Are you sure Debbie won’t mind you inviting me?” Daphne asked dubiously.

“No worries. She always cooks more than we can eat,” the blond reassured her. “You’d better be prepared for a ribald conversation, though, since the two of them are bound to quiz me about my new dildo. Heck, they’ll probably want to know what I’ve named it.”

“I’d still feel better if you gave Debbie a quick jingle,” Daph insisted. “Here, use my mobile.”

Justin obligingly dialed Deb’s house, grinning when he heard Harley chirping, “Hello,” in the background as Vic picked up. “Hey, Vic,” he cheerfully greeted the older man. “I was thinking of bringing Daphne over for dinner tonight and wanted to check with Deb that it would be okay.”

“Sis is running errands, but I know she’ll give you hell if you _don’t_ bring your friend home with you,” Vic jested. “You know how she likes nothing better than having people over.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told Daph,” Justin chuckled, “but she wouldn’t agree to accompany me until I checked in.” When the teen heard Harley squawk again, he teased, “Is Harley taking good care of you?”

“He’s teaching me to talk,” Vic replied in a deadly serious tone. “Go have fun, you rascal, and we’ll see you around six for dinner?”

“We’ll be there,” Justin promised. “Later.”

After ending the call and sliding the cell phone across the table, he reported, “See? They’re putting out the welcome mat.”

“I just wanted to be sure,” Daphne chided, “since, unlike someone whose name I won’t mention, I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

Justin threw an onion ring at his bestie, which she deftly caught in her hand before gulping it down.

 

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Daph groused as they scurried along the sidewalk from the diner, a few snowflakes swirling in the air. “How much farther is it to that shop?”

“We’re here,” Justin announced in a muffled voice, his face buried in the folds of his scarf as he waved toward their right.

The girl’s jaw dropped, and she stopped in her tracks, gaping at the items displayed in The Promised Land’s window.

“Daphne?” Justin looked around for his friend after opening the door to the shop. “I thought you wanted to get in where it’s warm.”

“Uh, yeah,” she responded, trotting over to him, her gaze skittering away from the blond’s. “Um, some of those things are really big… and wide… Do they fit… you know, up there?” she inquired as she followed Justin inside.

They realized Daph’s voice had carried when the clerk, a tattooed chick with multiple piercings who was dressed in black leather, drawled, “It’s not just fags who like to put things ‘up there’, ya know?”

“Oh, right, of course, lesbians too.” Daphne tried to act all casual, but failed miserably.

“Honey, straight girls use them too,” the salesgirl chided, shaking her head at the clueless teen.

“Oh, you’re, uh, straight...” Daph floundered helplessly, elbowing Justin in the ribs in a plea to be rescued.

“I’m bi, little virgin, and could I ever teach you a thing or two,” the woman offered, winking at Daph lasciviously.

Justin’s lips twitched at how flustered his friend was getting. It was fun to be the cool, confident one for a change. “C’mon,” he urged Daphne, “let’s take a look around.”

“Fuck, Jus, I feel like such a muppet,” Daph hissed as they started to browse the shelves.

“You just need a learner’s permit,” joked the blond.

“Ouch!” his friend winced, surreptitiously rubbing her chest, as she examined a package of nipple clamps, with an image on the front depicting how to apply them. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Sure it does,” the blond replied, feeling wordly-wise, “but that’s kind of the point. Like with my nipple ring - it feels really good when it’s tugged.”

“Um, I’ll pass,” Daphne stated, hurriedly putting the packet back on the rack.

“Wow!” she exclaimed moments later as they began browsing the dildos at the back of the shop. “There’s a whole wall dedicated to these.”

“Like the salesperson said, everyone uses them,” Justin absently muttered as he scanned his options. “They’re the best toy ever invented.”

“Hey, check this one out.” Daphne directed Justin’s attention to an electric blue dildo. “It’s a nice color.”

Justin chuckled at the notion of buying a phallic toy based on color, but then again, not only would it almost match his eyes, it would also look erotic against his skin. He took the package off the shelf, checking out the size of the phallus as well as its features. “Hmm,” he mused aloud, “it’s as long as Brian’s cock and just about as wide as mine… Plus, it vibrates at different speeds.”

“What effect does the vibration have?” Daphne inquired, glancing quizzically at him.

“It stimulates a man’s prostate,” Justin answered frankly, “producing indescribable pleasure.”

“Huh,” Daphne mumbled, her face bright red, before turning to an end cap on a shelf behind them. “Hey, what’s this?” she eyed the image of a thin steel rod next to a penis in bewilderment.

“It’s a sound,” Justin explained. “It’s inserted in the urethra to produce erotic sensation.”

Daphne’s face scrunched up in horror. “No way. That must be dangerous. You haven’t tried that, have you Jus?”

“No…” the blond replied slowly, mostly repelled but also a little intrigued, “but I might with just the right partner. I’d really need to trust the other person.”

“If you ever do try it, talk to a doctor first, okay?” Daphne begged. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Okay, I will,” Justin reassured his bestie. It wasn’t as if had anyone he’d want to try sounding with in any case.

After looking at the other dildos, Justin didn’t see anything that he liked more than the one Daphne had spotted. “Let’s check out,” he told his friend, “I’m going with this one, even though it costs more than what I planned to spend.”

Glancing at the price tag for the first time as they made their way to the cash register, Daph objected,“Fifty dollars for a sex toy?”

“It’s high quality,” the tattooed salesgirl stated in an offended tone. “You’ll get years of use out of this,” she earnestly informed Justin.

“Yeah…” Justin beamed at the clerk, already looking forward to trying it out before he went to sleep.

“You should try a good starter dildo and give yourself some much-needed relief… and practice for the real deal,” the clerk recommended to Daphne as she rang up Justin’s purchase. She pointed to a slender lavender-hued wand that was about one inch in diameter and five inches long.

“That’s not at all realistic,” Justin propounded.

“Yeah, but she’s a virgin,” the salesgirl declared.

“I’ll be outside,” Daph squeaked, fleeing the shop.

“You should give her a sex ed lesson,” the biker chick advised, chuckling lightly at Daphne’s obvious consternation.

“What? No,” Justin hastily rejected that idea. “I’m gay. She needs a straight boy.”

“She needs someone experienced who’ll be understanding,” the woman called after him.

Justin dismissed her advice. No way would Daphne want that.

As they walked along Liberty Avenue, stirring up puffs of white powder with their shoes, Justin’s mind drifted to his new dildo. He imagined it freshly lubed, glinting in the moonlight streaming in through the bedroom window as he teased his entrance with the vibrating tip… Then, however, he was jolted out of his musings by his best friend and scrambled to catch up with what she’d been saying.

“...ow, Jus, I was thinking...” Daphne’s voice petered out as they neared _Woof and Tweet_ , the local pet store.

“Hmm?” Justin inquired, a trifle embarrassed that he’d been daydreaming about using his new toy.

“Ehm, I’ll tell you later,” Daphne mumbled as they were swept into the pet store along with a collie and her owners.

The two men were noisily arguing the merits of the best dog food. “Iams is fucking boring,” one of the fags declared. “Look at that - the dog on the packaging must have mange.”

“Ooh, gross, you’re right,” his companion shuddered as he looked at a bag of Iams. “We don’t want to be all itchy, do we girl?” he asked, patting their dog on the head.

“I’d like to have a dog someday,” Justin commented. “It would be good company for Harley.”

“Can I help you?” a deep voice inquired.

When Justin turned around, he was faced with a balding giant of a man, who topped Justin’s height by at least a foot.

“I’m looking for a toy for my new budgie,” the teen proudly revealed. “The folks over at the Sequoia Humane Society estimated he’s one to two years old.”

“His owners abandoned him?” the giant queried.

“No,” Justin quickly replied, “they moved to Nepal and couldn’t take the little guy with them.”

“Ah, you came along at just the right time,” the man smiled at Justin. “Follow me,” he requested, chattering away as he led them toward the back of the store. “I’m Tweet. My husband, Woof, and I own this fine establishment.” He gestured toward a tiny man, who was ringing up a sale, “That’s Woof.”

Daphne poked her bestie, raising her eyebrows, causing Justin to nod in amused agreement. It did seem like this man should be Woof and his husband Tweet.

“Do you have a particular toy in mind?” Tweet asked.

“Not really, just something special,” Justin answered. “Harley II is my first pet.”

“You’re fond of motorcycles then?” Tweet guessed.

“My surrogate mom’s an aficionado,” the blond clarified, “and she once had a budgie named Harley.”

“Aw, how sweet,” Tweet cooed, Daphne’s head bobbing up and down in agreement. “You’re a good lad to acquire another Harley for the two of you to enjoy.”

Justin forewent mentioning Vic, embarrassed enough to receive praise for doing something which benefited him at least as much as Debbie.

“What do you think of this?” the giant asked, dangling a package containing a green mirror lantern, with a bell at the bottom, in front of Justin. “Parakeets love mirrors and bells, curious little critters that they are.”

The blond chuckled. “Yeah, Harley’s already been ringing the ones on the bars of his cage.”

“The more, the merrier, right?” Daph jested.

“Exactly!” Tweet beamed at the teens.

“This looks perfect,” Justin decided. He worried at his bottom lip and shuffled his feet as he diffidently inquired, “What’s the cost? I don’t have that much ready cash at the moment.”

“Can you swing six dollars fifty?” Tweet asked.

“That’s a _lot_ less than you just spent on that dil-” Daphne suddenly broke off, mortified at what she’d been about to disclose.

Tweet merely laughed as he led them toward the register, echoing Justin’s assertion to Daphne earlier that afternoon, “That’s a requirement for every gay boy…”

 

Brian had completely forgotten that he had invited Theodore over for drinks by the time the man rang his doorbell. His mind was constantly going over the events of the previous night, preventing him from concentrating on anything - be it his job or otherwise. Waking up in the morning, sobered up, the weight of the situation had finally really hit him and ever since then, his traitorous brain insisted on coming up with scenarios of what could’ve happened had that nosy redhead not interfered.

He felt a bit stupid, since nothing had really happened to him, but he couldn’t help the feeling of nausea that arrived every time he remembered that asshole of a trick. What sort of self-respecting fag wouldn’t take no for an answer?  

The bell sounded again, startling Brian out of his thoughts. The brunet sighed. What the hell had he been thinking, inviting Theodore for drinks like that? The guy was going to think he was coming onto him or something. Well, it was too late to cancel now, he thought in exasperation, since the boring man was already downstairs.

Buzzing his friend up, Brian rubbed a hand across his face, trying to pull himself together. He didn’t want the other man to notice something was amiss. When the expected knock on the door came, Brian steeled himself and went to open it, greeting his friend with a grunted, “Hey, Theodore.”

Ted blinked at him for a few seconds before answering, “Hi.” He paused, the two men staring at each other. “Uh, can I come in then?”

Brian snapped out of it. “Yeah,” he answered, stepping aside to let the older man through.

A brief silence ensued as Ted stepped inside, shrugging off his coat. “Um,” he muttered, “where should I put this?”

Brian waved his arm in the general direction of the coat hangers, giving Ted a look.

Ted shot an exasperated glare at him in return. “I’ve only ever been here for Michael’s birthday bash, and all sorts of balloons and streamers covered these pegs at the time. How’d you expect me to know this was your notion of a coat rack?”

The younger brunet shrugged. “You have eyes,” he snarked. “You see a coat hanger - it shouldn’t take a genius to figure out you hang coats on it.”

“Listen, if you invited me here just to make fun of me, I think I’ll leave.” Ted declared, starting to back out through the open door.

Brian caught him by his lapel, tugging him back inside. “Don’t be a fucking girl, Theodore,” he muttered, though he did give his friend a half-apologetic look.

“First time I’ve been mistaken for a gal,” Ted chuckled, accepting the quasi apology.

The adman raised his eyebrows. “A ‘gal’?” he questioned, scrunching up his nose. “Is this also your first time in this century?”

“I thought I’d test out a new three-letter word for Michael,” Ted quipped. “He’ll need all the help he can get the next time we play Scrabble.”

Walking over to his liquor bar, Brian smirked. “That’s not nearly as funny as it would be had you had the balls to say it in front of Mikey,” he commented. Raising a bottle of Beam Black Label, he lifted an eyebrow at Ted in question.

Ted shook his head up and down in approval of Brian’s choice of whiskey, while professing, “I couldn’t say something like that to Michael. It would just hurt his feelings without affecting his Scrabble skills.”

“He has to grow thick skin,” Brian shrugged. “He’s fucking thirty years old now, after all.”

“Uh-huh,” Ted rebutted, “I haven’t exactly noticed you driving that point home.”

“I’m not his mother.”

“And you think I am?” Ted interjected in disbelief. “No thanks. I don’t want the job.”

Brian’s brow furrowed in confusion. “When the hell did I say that?” he asked. Had he missed something? Awkward conversations like this were exactly why he usually avoided inviting anyone over for some one-on-one. Now if he could only remember what had prompted him to ask Theodore over...

“You seemed to be implying that although you’re not Michael’s mother, I should take on that task.” Ted stated in a resigned tone. “Just because I once had a crush on Mikey, it doesn’t mean I want to parent him.”

Brian stared at his friend, the bottle of bourbon still in his hand. What the fuck were they even talking about? he wondered, his brain scrambling to catch up. Unsure as to how their conversation had ended up on the topic of Michael, he shook his head. “Whatever. You want Beam?” he asked, raising the bottle again.

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I was imitating a bobble-head doll,” Ted jested before his tone turned earnest. “Are you okay, Brian? You seem a little out of it.”

Quickly pouring the glasses of the amber liquid, the younger man scoffed, “I’m fine.”

Ted glanced at him doubtfully as he accepted one of the tumblers from Brian, murmuring, “If you say so, Bri. I’m glad to listen, if there’s something you want to talk about… Speaking of which, why _did_ you want me to stop by tonight?”

Brian scrambled for something to say. He suspected that the reason he had asked Ted over was because he had enjoyed the man’s banter during the Scrabble game and had wanted to spend some time with him again. Pathetic, really. “Um,” he paused. “I think Ryder’s gonna fire me,” he finally blurted out, mentioning the first thing that came to mind. It wasn’t actually a completely bad idea to talk about it, he figured; Ted might even have some advice to offer regarding Brian’s plans to open his own company.

Also, the conversation might take his mind off of what was really bothering him - last night’s trick fiasco. The whole thing had him acting like a fucking lesbian - he had planned on stopping by the Armani shop on his way home from work, but as he’d been driving by, he’d caught a glimpse of someone from the corner of his eye that could have been last night’s assailant. He’d floored the gas pedal, burning rubber in his hurry to get away and had still been recovering - from what was surely a case of mistaken identity - when he’d walked into the loft, not long before Ted’s arrival. Unsurprisingly, his friend was far too observant not to have noticed that something was amiss.

“Whatever for?” Ted prompted, clearly shocked by Brian’s revelation. “Aren’t you his big rainmaker?”

And once again, Brian found himself floundering. Trying to summon all of his improvisation skills, he took a sip from his tumbler. “It’s not that I _think_ he’s gonna do it,” he explained vaguely. “It’s that I got an echo - Ryder’s legal team advised him to fire me.”

“If you’ve heard that, surely you must’ve also sussed out _why_ he’d be considering that sort of unsound business strategy,” Ted probed. “You may be an egotistical bastard, but from what you’ve said, you’re the one acquiring most of the new accounts for the firm. I can’t imagine Ryder would ever want to be in a situation where he’d be competing with you for clients.”

“Sexual harassment!” Brian yelled, startling both himself and the older man. Forcing himself to speak more calmly, he informed Ted, “One of the junior staff has accused me of sexually harassing him. Even though Ryder caught him in the act of trying to manipulate me, in my office no less, he’s running scared from the potential scandal. His legal beagles,” the adman sneered, “apparently believe the easiest way to avoid that is to give me the ax.”

Ted stared at him. “That’s ridiculous,” he commented. “I mean, I understand where he’s coming from, but getting rid of you is pretty stupid. Does your legal department even know how valuable you are?”

Brian shrugged wearily. “If they do know, they don’t give a rat’s ass. They’re blinkered by my sudden liability - and by Ryder being such a chickenshit.”

“And what do _you_ want?” Ted asked, tilting his head. “What would you prefer?”

“Are you kidding? Do you think I want to get fired?” Brian questioned sardonically.

“Don’t you?” Ted raised his eyebrow. “You always complain about Ryder and how he’s holding you back anyway.”

“That’s not the same as getting fired,” Brian spoke slowly, as if to an imbecile.

“Don’t be obtuse,” Ted demanded. “If Ryder is such a schmuck that he actually fires you, then the non-competition clause would be null and void.” Quirking an eyebrow at Brian, he pled, “Please tell me that Melanie worked that in when she vetted your contract.”

“She did,” Brian affirmed, his interest in a topic about which he would normally be enthusiastic flagging. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, reflecting that the fucking trick from the night before was making it difficult to think about anything else.

“Brian,” Ted spoke gently, “Are you really ok?”

“Why do you keep asking that? I told you I was fine!” Brian remonstrated.

“I saw you at Babylon last night.” Ted explained.

“Fuck!” Brian shouted, panicking internally. Pacing toward the window, he pounded one fist against the glass and blindly stared down onto the darkened street.

“No one else saw you,” Ted quickly reassured him, “but I thought you looked distraught. Did something happen?”

“Just a really lousy blow job,” Brian shrugged off his friend’s concern. He quickly composed himself and sauntered back to the bar, where he poured another healthy measure of Beam into his glass, adding some to Ted’s as well. He fervently hoped Ted hadn’t noticed his little meltdown. Christ, he was turning into a fucking girl, obsessing over that trick.

Ted eyed him skeptically, but didn’t call Brian on his bullshit. Instead, he moved over to the sofa, where he made himself comfortable. “You know, Brian,” he disclosed, “I’ve been wanting to get your opinion about this guy I’ve been seeing. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone else, though, since the gang might scare him off.”

Brian eyed him suspiciously. “You want _my_ opinion on a relationship?” he asked in disbelief.

“Why not?” Ted inquired in a reasonable tone. “You’re a good judge of character.”

Quirking a dubious eyebrow at the older man, Brian queried, “You have heard the tale of how I’ve only ever gone on one date...”

“...where you ended up fucking the waiter.” Ted recited. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“That didn’t clue you in that I’m the last person who should give relationship advice?” Brian asked.

“Let me tell you how we met,” Ted suggested. “We were at a bookstore on Liberty Avenue, the one a couple storefronts down from Red Cape Comics, and almost bumped heads when we reached for the same book. So, we got to talking…”

“What an exciting life you lead, Theodore,” Brian interposed, rolling his eyes. “Did anything actually happen on this momentous occasion?” The adman refused to admit he was in the least interested in hearing more, even though he had now taken a seat at the other end of the couch.

“We ended up talking for hours, first over coffee and then dinner,” Ted continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Since then, we’ve been on two dates.”

“Sounds like all is proceeding smoothly, if very dully,” Brian yawned. “I don’t see that you need my advice.”

“The guy is way out of my league,” Ted confessed. “I mean, on top of being a brainiac - he’s a professor at Carnegie Mellon - he’s absolutely built, with muscles on top of muscles.” An uncertain expression crossing his face, the accountant mumbled, “I can’t figure out what he’s doing with me.”

Brian stared at his friend, flabbergasted. Did the man need him to explain sexual attraction?

Ted forestalled Brian by raising a hand, claiming, “You must think I don’t stand a chance with the guy. After all, I’m just ‘boring old Ted’. But if you could withhold the scathing commentary, I’d be grateful.”

“Well,” Brian drawled, a teasing lilt in his voice, “I _was_ going to offer to take a look at the guy and make sure he’s good enough for you.” His tone became more serious as he added, “I’d like to be sure he’ll treat you right and not just use you.”

“You’re the last one I want Ben to meet,” Ted retorted. “You’d probably steal him from me.”

The adman rolled his eyes, asserting, “I’m not interested, Theodore.” He hoped the older man didn’t believe Brian was so lacking in knowledge of gay etiquette that he’d fuck a friend’s date.

 

“We’re here,” Justin called out, alerting Deb and Vic to their arrival as he ushered Daphne into the house that evening.

“Come on, Baby!” Harley chirped, while Debbie yelled, “We’re in the kitchen!”

Justin grinned happily at the budgie’s new greeting as he hung up his and Daphne’s coats. “C’mon,” he urged, “come meet our sassy little budgie.”

When they entered the kitchen, Harley chirped, “Come on, Baby!” again, swinging to and fro on his perch.

“Are you some kind of budgie whisperer?” Justin asked Vic, who was beaming proudly at the parakeet.

“It’s all clear to me now, how Harley the First learned so many curse words, while I was working all day,” Debbie teased.

Vic shot her an unrepentant grin. “I thought you would’ve twigged to that long before now, Sis,” he bantered.

Daphne poked her friend in the ribs as she listened to the raillery between the siblings, hissing, “You’re so bloody lucky to live here, Jus.”

“I know,” the blond smiled smugly.

“Oh! Where are my manners?” Vic chided himself, turning to their guest. “You’re Daphne, right? The girl who accompanied our Sunshine to Babylon when he didn’t have quite enough bravado to go by himself.”

This time it was Daphne who smiled smugly at her bestie. “That’s right,” she confirmed, before admitting, “I wanted to go anyway, so it was no hardship.”

“Babylon would be quite the eye opener for anyone who’s never been to a gay club before,” Deb chuckled from her station at the cooker.

Another “Hello” from Harley directed their attention back to the preening budgie, who cocked his head at Daphne as if to inquire, ‘Who’re you?’

“I think he likes you, Daph,” Justin enthused, leading his friend over to the birdcage. “He has good taste,” he whispered, winking at his friend and Harley.

Harley’s head bobbed up and down as he let out a few clacking sounds, seemingly agreeing with the blond and thus eliciting a round of laughter.

“A budgie for a boyfriend,” the girl jested. “I could do worse than this handsome little fellow.”

“A good-looking gal like you must have the boys tripping over themselves to get your attention,” the older man opined.

“The ones who aren’t gay,” the redhead cackled.

“Even those,” Justin warmly averred, making Daphne flush with pleasure as he pulled out a chair for her to take a seat.

“You see, Vic, that’s how to use those manners Mama tried to drill into you,” Debbie claimed, nudging her brother as she carried a pan over to the table.

“Too late for an old reprobate like me to change,” Vic stated. “Old dog, new tricks, and all that.”

“You mean you don’t _want_ to change,” Deb admonished.

“That too,” Vic complacently admitted.

“You okay with milk?” Justin asked Daphne as he grabbed the carton from the fridge.

“Is it from those happy cows out in California?” the girl quipped.

The blond pretended to study the carton before dissenting, “Nope. It’s an ordinary Pennsylvania cow juice.”

“Fuck, I love those commercials,” Deb interjected as she sat down. “It’s almost like an animated version of _The Far Side_.”

At the identical blank looks from the teens, Vic prompted, “Gary Larson?”

“Um, no…” Justin muttered, with Daph echoing him.

“Jesus, what are they teaching you kids these days?” Debbie chided. “Larson’s cartoons are classics. I’ll have to dig out the book I have around here somewhere; as an artist, I’m sure you’d get a kick out of his designs, Kiddo.”

“Okay,” Justin shrugged. The old cartoons could be worth a laugh, he supposed.

“It’s nothing special tonight, I’m afraid,” Debbie apologized as she cut up the eggy dish and gave everybody a goodly portion. “I just threw together leftovers and made a frittata.”

“It’s scrumptious,” Daphne moaned after she took a bite. “I wouldn’t dare throw together ingredients helter-skelter. I’d end up with a soggy mess.”

“I guess I have learned a thing or two after thirty-odd years in front of a stove,” the redhead cackled. “You ever want lessons, just let me know. I can teach you along with Sunshine.”

“I’d like that,” the girl smiled at Debbie. “Like I was telling Justin, he’s lucky to live here with the two of you.”

“Huh. I think we’re the ones who’re lucky, having a good lad like Justin brighten this old house,” Vic proclaimed sincerely.

“Allergies,” Justin mumbled as he swiped at reddened eyes.

“Yeah, I’m having an attack too,” Deb claimed, mimicking the blond’s motion.

“So what did you kids get up to this afternoon?” the redhead asked a few minutes later, wanting to steer the conversation towards a more lighthearted topic.

“Oh!” the blond exclaimed. “I got a new toy for Harley. Let me grab my bag.”

“Don’t forget your other new _toy_ ,” Daphne slyly reminded Justin as he jumped up.

As he returned, Debs ordered him to “Sit and eat.” ladling another portion onto the blond’s plate.

Justin passed the green mirror lantern to Vic, who chuckled, “Our Harley’s gonna love this.”

“He’ll spend all his time admiring himself in those mirrors,” the redhead mused, “and ringing the bells on his cage. You’re going to be on call 24/7, Victor Grassi,” she joked.

“Harley and I have an understanding,” the older man retorted. “That budgie and I are already the best of buddies; we keep each other from getting bored. So, he’ll listen when I tell him to wait with the bells till you get home, Sis.”

“He’d better not,” Debs playfully swatted at Vic. “I hear bells all day long at the diner, and so does Sunshine - between the diner and school.”

“No mentioning school,” Justin protested. “I have almost a full week of freedom left, and I’m determined to enjoy it.” Smothering a yawn, he added, “Even if it kills me…”

“Sheer bliss,” Daphne sighed, “no physics tests or nasty calculus revision exams…”

“Just think how much you’ve already improved in Dickhead’s class and the probabilities of earning a B for your final grade,” Justin encouraged his friend, dredging up a bright smile even as his eyelids drooped.

“How about we just calculate for how long you’ll use your new playmate every day?” Daph mischievously suggested, flourishing the bright blue object in the air before setting the package down on the table.

“I’m gonna get you for that,” Justin groaned. He should’ve known his bestie would fish his new dildo out of his bag.

“Will not,” the girl taunted, sticking her tongue out at the blond.

“Brat,” Justin elbowed his friend.

“Nimrod,” Daphne retorted.

Vic and Debbie couldn’t stop laughing at their antics, the redhead finally gasping, “You two remind me of me and Vic when we were younger. We were constantly trying to one-up each other.”

Justin’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline as he muttered in disbelief, “When you were _younger_ …”

“He’s got us there, Sis,” Vic chuckled. “We haven’t changed much at all in that respect.”

“Thank fuck,” Deb nodded vigorously, making everyone laugh.

“So, Sunshine, whatcha going to name this handsome bloke?” Vic inquired as he examined the plastic-encased dildo.

“Ooh, it’s got a vibrating function,” Deb announced, peering over Vic’s shoulder. “How about ‘earthshaker’?”

“ _I feel the earth move under my feet_ ,” Vic sang in a pleasing tenor.

“ _I feel the sky tumblin’ down_ ,” Deb warbled.

Vic stood up, pulling Debbie to her feet and dancing her around the room as they crooned, “ _I feel my heart start to tremblin’, whenever you’re around!_ ”

“You were right,” Daphne hissed, while the siblings were dancing. “They do want to name your toy.”

“You couldn’t keep your trap shut, couldya?” the blond fondly mocked.

“Of course not,” the girl huffed. “You needed taking down a peg, Mr know-it-all Cleverclogs.”

Vic returned Deb to the table as the siblings repeated the chorus a final time. “That Carole King had one fine voice,” he opined, grinning at the teens.

“Uh, I think my mom’s mentioned her,” Daph uncertainly replied.

“Why, she was huge in the seventies,” Debbie declared, hands on her hips.

“Ehm, we weren’t born yet,” Justin interposed, sticking up for his best friend.

“Holy fuck, you really weren’t,” the discombobulated redhead exclaimed. “Well then,” she decided, rubbing her hands together briskly, “we old fogies will just have to provide you young’uns with a musical education.”

“Not till we come up with a name for Justin’s new best friend,” Vic reminded her.

“Have all of you, like, used one of these before?” a rather pink-faced Daphne stuttered. “I’ve been wondering if I should get one for myself.”

“Honey, dildos are the greatest,” Deb proclaimed. “They don’t run out of steam just when you’re getting to the good part.”

Justin blanched. “TMI, Debs! I didn’t need to know that!”

The redhead guffawed. “That’s exactly right, Kiddo. TMI!” At Justin’s baffled look, she spelled out, “TMI stands for The Mighty Intruder. Fuck,” she recalled fondly, “that first dildo of mine really was _mighty_.”

“Ew, Debs!” Justin stuck fingers in his ears. “I don’t want to hear all that. It’s like that time mum wanted to talk to me about erections when I was seven.”

Daphne was now blushing furiously, but she also looked completely intrigued. “The next time we go shopping, we’re looking for an _Intruder_ for me, Jus.”

“Fuck, no,” the beleaguered teen begged. “I can’t cope with more chatter about hetero sex.”

“Sweetie,” Debbie suggested, “we girls will go shopping together. We’ll get you one of those little red vibes.”

“Oh!” Daphne tittered, her face now crimson, “It’ll be Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Yep, you’ll definitely _ride_ it,” Deb chortled.

“Are you ‘ladies’ quite done?” Vic inquired, a pained look on his face. “Justin and I are in danger of never getting hard ever again.”

The blond nodded vehemently in agreement, suppressing another yawn. “The next thing I know, one of you will suggest I should name my dildo. I don’t want to fuck myself with something called Willy Wonka’s Wanker or something equally ridiculous.”

“What about the Staff of Zeus?” Daphne eagerly proposed, most likely recalling last week’s lesson on the influence of Greek gods in literature during their creative writing class.

“If I were going to name it after a god, it would be Eros, the god of love,” Justin claimed. At the look of approval on his bestie’s face, he hastily added, “Not that I’m gonna call it anything.”

“I’ve got it!” Vic snapped his fingers, ignoring the blond’s declaration. “I christen this dildo B.O.B., otherwise known as-”

“Vic,” his sibling interrupted, “we need something catchier than ‘Battery Operated Boyfriend’.”

“If you’d just let me finish,” Vic huffed, “I was going to say _Battery Operated Brian_. From what I’ve heard the man does keep going and going, just like the Energizer Bunny.”

The blond began giggling helplessly. He could just imagine the fit Brian would pitch if he heard that name. “Okay,” he assented between bursts of laughter, “B.O.B. it is."

“So,” Debbie revealed as Justin cleared away the dinner dishes, “I held back some struffoli from last night’s dinner. Who wants some?”

“You’ve gotta try these, Daph,” Justin insisted, placing a plate with two of the dough balls in front of his friend. “They’re to die for.”

Vic chuckled, “Even Brian ate a few last night, sneaking them off Justin’s plate and breaking his ‘no carbs after seven’ rule.”

“He didn’t even know he was doing it,” Deb interjected, her eyes twinkling. “It was a good thing though. The boy’s far too thin, needs fattening up.”

“Everyone knows carbs don’t count if you eat them off someone else’s plate - or if you stand up while you eat,” Daphne giggled, snatching a third sweet from Justin’s plate.

His energy suddenly flagging, Justin rested his chin in his hand, not even trying to fend off the struffoli thief.

“That go-go dancing from last night catching up with you, Kiddo?” Vic queried. “Maybe not as easy as you thought?”

“I can handle it,” the younger man insisted, even as his elbow slipped off the table, causing him to jerk upright.

“Oh! I forgot you were shaking your tail in front of all those horny men for the first time.” Daphne babbled. “How’d it go? When do you dance again? I want to come watch.”

“Whoa,” Justin tried to slow down his enthusiastic friend. “I made pretty good tips, but I’m hoping I’ll get to dance on the bar soon. That’s where a go-go boy really rakes it in. The fags stuff cash underneath the bands of our underwear when they order drinks - until it looks like we’re sprouting money.”

“How long is your shift?” Daphne asked, eyeing her friend more closely. “You _do_ look absolutely knackered, Jus.”

“Only six hours, but the dancing really does take a lot of energy,” the blond admitted as his elbow began to slide off the table again.

“Are you sure you can handle a couple shifts a week, what with school and the diner job?” Daph queried dubiously. “It sounds like too much to me.”

“I can handle it,” Justin stubbornly reiterated. “I’ll just have to go to bed a little earlier.”

“Maybe we should all hit the hay early tonight,” Vic diplomatically suggested. “I could use some extra rest myself.”

“Let me just call my mom and see if she can come pick me up,” Daphne stated, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone.

“No need, Honey. I’ll give you a ride home,” Debbie offered. “I can put Vincent away when I get back.”

“Her car,” Justin mouthed at Daph when she looked at him in bewilderment. “Do you want me to come with?” he asked the motherly woman, torn between accompanying his friend  and trying out his new toy.

“No, you’d better keep that date with B.O.B.” Deb teased.

Justin grinned, feeling a bit of his energy return. After waving Daphne on her way, he cleaned up the last of the dishes with Vic, before calling goodnight and taking the stairs two at a time, B.O.B. firmly clasped in his hand.

 

Ted and Brian had almost drained the bottle of Beam by the time twilight fell, having downed glass after glass of the expensive liquid as they chatted. It wasn’t really the way you were supposed to drink a label like that - if you just wanted to get pissed, there was always vodka - but Brian was way past caring.

“Man, I’m mothered,” Ted complained after finishing off another glass and then having trouble putting it back on the table.

Brian snorted. “Wimp.”

The older man shot him a look. “Not everyone can have lead lev- liver,” he snarked, stumbling over his words.

“It’s called ‘high alcohol tolerance’, Schmidt,” Brian informed his friend, enunciating clearly.

Ted shrugged. “You didn’t look vel- very tolerant yesterday,” he muttered. “You almost fell on your face as you stumbled out of the backroom.”

Brian’s stomach sank, bile rising in his throat. Maybe drinking almost half a bottle of Beam so soon after his Babylon escapade wasn’t a good idea after all. “Shut up,” he grunted after he managed to suppress the regurgitation of his stomach’s contents.

Ted seemed to sober up a little. “Brian, I didn’t mean-”

“Just shut up, Theodore!” the younger man spat back. “That’s not what I invited you here to talk about.”

“Why then?” Ted wondered.

Brian faltered for a second but managed to come up with something before it could look suspicious. “I told you I might get fired,” he began, “and you mentioned the non-compete clause. Now, if I give you a hypothetical situation, would you give me your opinion?”

The other man nodded, pouring himself another glass. “Sure, just don’t expect rocket science out of me now, since I’m slaughtered.”

The adman rolled his eyes. “I don’t expect rocket science out of you even when you’re sober,” he assured his friend. “Just tell me what you think, ok?”

Ted nodded again.

“So, hypothetically, if I did get fired and the NCC became void, I could start my own ad company here in Pittsburgh, right?”

“Yes,” the accountant agreed.

“And Ryder wouldn’t be able to do anything about it?” Brian asked to make sure.

“No. Once the NCC’s void, he has no say over any of your future business attempts,” Ted assured him.

Brian bit his lip. “But my clients would stay at Ryder, right?”

Theodore cleared his throat, putting down his glass. “Yes, they sign contracts with Ryder, not you. However, from what you’ve mentioned, they do sign _because_ of you, so there is a good chance they would follow you.”

Brian motioned for Ted to elaborate.

“You should talk with your clients and ask them, hypothetically, if they would be amenable to switching agencies if you left Ryder. Be careful, though, to do it on your own time, outside of work hours, using your private phone number - you can’t conduct your own business at Ryder.”

The adman nodded in understanding. “Then what?”

“Then, when you’ve set up the new company, you talk to them again. Not all of them will actually follow you, no matter what they promised before, but you should gain a couple good accounts out of it. You might just have to wait for their contracts with Ryder to run their course,” he warned. “Not everyone will be willing to pay the early termination fee.”

Brian hmmed, mulling over Ted’s answers. The man hadn’t really said anything different than what Brian had already thought. Clients weren’t going to be a problem, he decided confidently, he never had trouble schmoozing for new accounts. The challenge was going to be running the new agency by himself - he didn’t have any experience.

“If I may ask,” Ted interrupted his thoughts. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Hypothetically, of course.”

Brian shook his head, before pausing and nodding instead. “Yeah, I talked with Cynthia. She’s willing to leave with me.”

“Be careful,” Ted urged him. “You don’t want Ryder to get wind of this. If you want to approach some of Ryder’s employees, do it after he fires you - if he fires you, that is.”

The adman narrowed his eyes at his friend. He hadn’t considered that someone might warn Ryder about his intentions, in which case Brian’s enterprise would fail before it even really started…

“Theodore,” he drawled. “You seem to really know what you’re talking about.”

The other man shrugged. “Common sense and a couple law school classes,” he explained.

Brian contemplated him, head tilted. “How happy are you with your job?” he asked.

Ted’s face rearranged itself in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Brian enunciated slowly, “would you be willing to work for me? Hypothetically speaking.”

The accountant stared at him in shock for a few minutes, before composing himself. “I am way too drunk for this conversation, Brian,” he admitted. “I want to say ‘yes’, but I don’t know if that’s the Beam or me speaking.”

The ad exec sighed. “I understand. How about we meet some other time - sans booze - and talk it over again? Sometime this week?”

“Sure,” Ted agreed. “How’s Wednesday do you?”

The younger man searched his brain for any prior engagements, coming up empty. “Sure, that works. I’ll call-” he paused, remembering. “No, I can’t, I’m babysitting Gus. The lesbians wanted to have a night out and they asked me to look after the little tyke.”

“That’s ok, we’ll figure it out later,” Ted offered.

“Yeah,” sighed Brian, closing his eyes. It was getting late and he was exhausted.

“Brian?” Ted’s quiet voice filtered through the haze.

“Hmmm,” the younger brunet hmmed, not bothering to open his eyes.

Soon enough, all you could hear in the loft were soft wheezing snores and breathy exhalations as both men succumbed to sleep.

 

Justin made his way upstairs after Daphne and Debbie left, while Vic was nodding off in his armchair with Harley II chirping away quietly. The budgie had called something that sounded like ‘Nah nah’ after him, which Vic had insisted meant ‘Night night’, but which Justin was sure was just unintelligible bird chatter.

Now, as he was getting ready for bed, his thoughts turned to his new toy - he couldn’t wait to try it out. After stepping out of the shower and toweling himself dry, he pulled the dildo out of the soapy bath he had prepared beforehand, washed it off, and slathered it with lube. Then he laid a towel across his bed - not wanting to change the sheets afterwards - and lay down.

Feeling a bit awkward at how clinical the preparation had felt until then, Justin tried to get in the mood by tuning the old radio in his room to a jazz station. Brian would’ve scoffed at the cliché, he imagined, but it worked and that’s all that mattered. That and the fact that Vic might not actually hear him over the seductive sounds of saxophone.

Taking hold of his new friend, Justin turned the vibration to the lowest setting, circling the rim of his hole with the dildo. Sighing in pleasure, he tried to call up some of his favourite jerk-off fantasies, most of which, naturally, involved a certain brunet. As he teased himself with the toy, his thoughts drifted back to a time Brian came home late from work, the dinner Justin had prepared ruined.  

Where the fuck was the stud? Justin had fumed, glaring at the wilted salad greens. He’d given up and  turned off the heat under the jambalaya half an hour ago. It might theoretically taste better the second day, but not when it had congealed into a lumpy mess.

Right then, the teen heard the heavy metal door sliding open, the noise soon followed by Brian sardonically announcing, “Honey, I’m home!”

“So soon?” Justin had snarked, arms folded across his chest.

Either not noticing the blond’s mood or not caring, Brian sniffed at the air and commented appreciatively, “Something smells good. What’re we having?”

“We _were_ having jambalaya,” the teenager had stressed the change in tense, “but as it has since become a sloppy mess, it’s probably not worth it anymore.”

“I could order Thai,” Brian offered, apparently still oblivious to Justin’s mood.

“Or you could go fuck yourself,” the blond had countered angrily. “If I’d wanted Thai, I would’ve ordered it in the first place, dontcha think?”

Brian raised his eyebrows in confusion, querying, “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

The teen had stared at Brian in disbelief. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Sure,” the adman shrugged, “you said I could go fuck myself, but I’d much rather fuck you.” Tossing his suit jacket over the arm of the couch, he had sauntered toward Justin.

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you decided to blow off dinner,” the blond had snarled. “You know, the one you said you’d be home for - an hour ago.”

“I had work to do, Sunshine,” Brian reminded him in a placating tone, before continuing with a sly smirk, “I’m sure I can make it up to you somehow, though.”

Justin could still remember the anger that had overtaken him at that point. Brian thought, as usual, that everything could be fixed with sex. Justin had decided to give him a taste of his own medicine - he’d follow the brunet’s example and use sex to teach him a lesson. As he recalled what had happened next, he slid the tip of his dildo inside of himself, breath hitching at the slight discomfort. He could see himself stalking predatorily towards Brian, who had been leaning against the loft’s support column, and growling, “Get your kit off.”

Seeing the glint in Justin’s eye, the brunet balked, “Listen, Jus, I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?” the blond had sneered. “You said you’d make it up to me, so don’t be going back on your word now.”

“I didn’t know you’d go all dominatrix on me, did I?” Brian puffed out, breathing more rapidly.

Justin had snorted. “Please, you love it.”

The blue dildo hit his prostate, causing the teenager to jerk back into the present. The vibrations against the sensitive bundle of nerves sent shivers up his spine and, moaning softly at the stimulation, Justin succumbed fully to the memory…

In his mind, Brian was slowly sliding his trousers down his thighs, his hard cock jumping up once it was free of the material. “The shirt too?” he asked cheekily.

“You can leave it if you want,” Justin responded calmly. “I can always tie your hands with it.”

“Fuck no, it’s Rubinacci,” Brian protested, hastily letting his shirt drop to the floor, not yet so far gone that he was willing to neglect his designer clothing.

“Good choice,” Justin taunted, pressing Brian against the post - chest first - and kicking his legs further apart.

Although the grunt he let out sounded miffed, the brunet voluntarily moved even closer to the column, his eagerness apparent.

“You’re going to have to do more than that if you truly want to apologize,” Justin whispered into Brian’s ear. He then stepped back, breaking all contact.

A shiver of anticipation coursed down the brunet’s spine as he waited. “Justin,” he moaned, when nothing happened for several seconds.

“Patience,” Justin teased, “gets rewarded.” He then kissed his lover’s shoulder blade, pressing fingers slick with lube lightly against the brunet’s hole.

“More,” Brian groaned, pushing back against the tantalizing fingers.

“Uh-uh,” the blond chided, “ _I’m_ setting the pace.”

The brunet swallowed convulsively and rested his forehead against the post, uncertain how much of this ‘torture’ he could take. Justin was rarely ever this dominating, but when the mood struck him, he went all out.

“Good boy,” Justin teased, slowly probing at Brian’s opening, barely dipping a fingertip inside before removing it again.

“Mmpfh,” the brunet garbled, shaking as he tried to hold still. It took a real effort not to rub his cock against the surface in front of him as the teen repeated the same action over and over, until Brian thought he might spontaneously combust.

Justin removed his fingers again, before tugging on Brian’s hand. “Let’s move this somewhere more comfortable,” he whispered, squeezing the brunet’s ass cheek.

“Fine by me,” the brunet readily agreed, giving the younger man a shove as they approached the bed. He’d intended for Justin to land on his back on the mattress, but it didn’t work out that way, the blond barely budging an inch. Damn the lad’s fucking core strength.

“I’m in charge,” Justin growled the reminder. “You’ve only just started to apologise.”

“Fuck,” Brian muttered before he could stop himself. “That’s hot. Annoying, but hot.”

“It looks like you need a bit of assistance to keep yourself under control,” Justin mused, walking over to the closet. After sorting through the ties, he held up a couple, asking, “What about these?”

“Have you no sense of fashion?” the aghast brunet retorted. “Take the Davidoff ones; they’ll be out of fashion soon.”

“How am I supposed to tell them from your other labels?” Justin queried. “They all look alike to me.”

“Philistine,” Brian muttered, before indicating, “Take the two on the left. The far left,” he clarified when the teen reached for this season’s Battistoni, making him despair that the lad would never learn.

“You’re such a fucking queen,” Justin declared when he returned with the nearly passé ties. The first one was a navy blue necktie with a horrid horse polo motif, while the other one was a plain red. How a plain red tie could go out of fashion, Justin didn’t know, but he didn’t want to start a long-winded discussion with Brian, so he just went with it.

“Lie down,” he commanded. “No, you idiot,” he said fondly when he saw his lover lowering himself onto his stomach, “on your back - I want to see your face as you beg me for it.”

Brian barely refrained from squirming at the authoritative note in Justin’s voice. What had happened to his vaunted control? he wondered. Fuck, nothing had even happened yet, and he was already acting like a bloody virgin.

“Arms above your head,” Justin instructed, crawling between his partner’s spread legs. “And hold onto the headboard.” He carefully secured Brian’s wrists in place, checking that he hadn’t pulled the ties too tight.

The brunet grunted in assent when Justin asked, “Does that feel okay?”

While his lover watched, Justin reached into the bedside table, pulling out the man’s favourite glass dildo. It wasn’t overly thick or long but it had a large head that stimulated one’s prostate if used right.

A droplet of sweat trailed down Brian’s temple as he watched the teen grease the object before simply resting the tip against the older man’s perineum. Brian squirmed again, trying to dislodge the fake cock and shift it to where he wanted it most urgently.

Justin tilted his head in curiosity, commenting, “You look like you could come just from this little bit of stimulation, Brian.”

The brunet snorted. “Hardly, Sunshine. That wouldn’t be enough to make any gay man come.”

“Really?” the blond quirked an eyebrow, rubbing the dildo a bit more firmly against the sensitive spot. “Because it looks to me like you’re about to blow like Mount Vesuvius.”

Even as Brian scoffed, “I’ve never come untouched, and it’s not gonna happen now,” he couldn’t keep himself from wriggling some more.

“You’d better learn how to do it fast then,” Justin recommended, “because you’re not coming otherwise.” He maintained a steady pressure against the brunet’s perineum, rubbing the dildo back and forth slightly to ratchet Brian’s arousal up even higher.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” the brunet moaned, writhing against the sheets and panting, “What is this supposed to prove anyway?”

“Hmm,” Justin mused, tapping his unoccupied index finger against his lips, “two things. One, that you truly are apologetic for being so inconsiderate - you didn’t even call to let me know you would be late. And, two, that you can get off untouched, no matter what you’ve believed till now.”

When the blond trailed the the dildo upward, circling it around his ball sac, Brian moaned loudly, tugging fruitlessly at the ties which bound his wrists, his back arching as his dick jerked. Unfortunately for him, Justin withdrew the toy before he could get any kind of actual stimulation out of it, only succeeding in riling him up more. When he’d calmed down enough to form words again, the brunet demanded, “Just fuck me already. Now. With the dildo or with your cock. I don’t care which.”

Justin grinned impishly as he returned the wand to Brian’s perineum, tapping it against the same spot, then exerting the same easy force as before. “That’s not how you ask for relief,” he chastised.

Although he knew he was doing himself a disservice, Brian clammed up. No way was he actually going to beg like some sort of _girl_. Bad enough that he’d pleaded with his tormenter as much as he already had.

The teen chuckled as Brian ground his molars together. “Don’t worry,” he mocked, “I can keep this up for hours.”

The brunet lost all track of time as Justin slowly brought him closer to the brink with the glass dildo - rimming his hole with it, pressing it against his perineum, swirling it around his balls, sliding it along the inside of his thighs. Never once, though, did the blond touch Brian’s cock, which was now a deep reddish-purple, bobbing about forlornly and occasionally slapping against the brunet’s belly as he squirmed.

“Fuck. Please. Okay? Please, just fuck me and let me come,” Brian finally begged in a voice made hoarse by screaming and moaning. Fuck being manly. He was sure he was going to die of a stroke if he didn’t come soon.

“What are the magic words?” Justin inquired.

“Huh?” the frantic brunet grunted. “I don’t know what- Just tell me, I’ll say anything you want.”

“I’m sorry, Justin,” the teen enunciated slowly. “I promise it will never happen again.”

Brian honestly couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be apologizing for, but he readily regurgitated the blond imp’s words, “I’m sorry. I promise whateverthefuck it was won’t happen again.”

“That’ll do,” Justin decided, obligingly pressing the tip of of the dildo against the muscle guarding Brian’s hole, exerting steady pressure until it penetrated inside by a couple of millimeters.

“More. Please. Now.” Brian beseeched.

“You don’t need more,” the blond assured his sweating, writhing victim, sliding the toy over to the brunet’s perineum and massaging the spot with it. “You look so hot, Brian,” he declared huskily. “Once you come, I’m going to lap up every last drop. Then I’m going to slide up your torso, pinching and tweaking your nipples until they’re sore from the abuse. Then, when I reach your lips, I’ll share the last of your cream with you. Finally, I’ll feed my cock into your ass and give you the pounding you’ve been beg-”

The teen stopped speaking as Brian yelled out a desperate, “Justin!”, his whole body jerking in frustration. “Please,” he begged again.

Justin smirked, sliding the dildo back inside Brian, this time delving deeper. “Like this?” he teased, pumping the toy in and out a couple of times.

The brunet panted. “More,” he sighed, sweat dripping off his hairline. His tanned body was glistening as it undulated underneath the blue lights in their bedroom, inspiring the desire to paint in the blond artist.

“Beautiful,” Justin murmured, grazing the wide head of the dildo against his lover’s prostate lightly, causing Brian to jerk violently.

“Come on, Sunshine,” the brunet urged him breathlessly. “I can’t come like this; just touch my cock.”

Justin bumped the bundle of nerves again. “Yes you can,” he whispered.

“No, I-” another tap against his prostate punched the breath out of him. “Jus!”

“Come on, Brian,” the blond husked, pressing against the gland more firmly. “You can do it.”

Tears were beginning to pool in the older man’s eyes as his body trembled in exertion. He opened and closed his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but words were eluding him. Justin pressed even harder, vibrating the dildo inside of Brian with his hand, prompting a loud moan out of the man.

“Clench,” he instructed his lover, wanting to concentrate Brian’s focus on the way the smooth surface of the glass felt inside him.

Brian clenched his inner muscles around the invading object, Justin increasing both the pressure and the vibrations against the brunet’s prostate. His lover’s body shook, wound so tightly Justin knew his muscles were going to be killing him the next day. Then, finally, the dam broke and Brian screamed an endless, “Aaaah,” his body bowing off the bed as his dick geysered all over his chest.

Then, the brunet suddenly slumped to the bed and lay still, causing Justin to worry for a moment that he’d hurt his lover. He hurriedly checked for a pulse, relaxing when he felt it beating steadily under his fingers.

Grinning proudly that he’d caused the stud to come so hard that he’d blacked out, Justin dampened a washcloth and tenderly cleaned Brian off, before carefully removing the Davidoff ties - which had been stretched out of any kind of recognizable shape - and tossing them in the the general direction of the wastebasket. Then he proceeded to kiss Brian awake, nibbling at his raspberry lips and breathing into his mouth.

Brian was so befuddled at first that he thought he was waking up from an erotic dream. Gradually, he became aware that Justin was feathering kisses all over his face - and that the teen had given him one of the most intense orgasms he’d ever experienced. “Christ,” he croaked, “where the fuck did you learn that?”

“Hmm,” Justin teased, “I learned from the master…”

The blond was suddenly catapulted back into reality as he came, shaking and screaming Brian’s name. Fuck, that had been intense - Battery Operated Brian, indeed. A few long moments elapsed before he was able to summon the energy to remove and turn off the dildo, mumbling, “Money well spent,” before rolling onto his stomach and passing out on top of the toy. He’d clean up in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the clever play on B.O.B., be sure to thank Navneet in your review. She came up with the wittiest name for Justin’s toy. :) The other fun suggestions came from Glo (Zeus), TAG, who was willing to lend us the name of her previous fave toy (The Mighty Intruder), and Tuneesha (Willy Wonka Wanker).
> 
> Justin’s memory scene at the end of the chapter was suggested by mcm as her reward for the 100th review on Kinnetik Dreams. We hope we delivered everything you wished for, Teresa. :) We will be awarding a similar prize for the 100th review on Archive of Our Own. It’ll be coming up soon, so post those comments!


	20. Chapter 20

When Justin woke up that morning, he stretched slowly, feeling his ass twinge as he did so. Memories of the previous night’s pleasures assaulted his mind and he sighed happily, opening his eyes. Then, looking around in puzzlement, he wondered what he’d done with his new toy. He couldn’t have lost it, since he’d had it in bed with him the last he remembered...

Right then, as he rolled onto his back, something prodded him in the thigh. “Ah, there you are,” Justin smirked, immediately glancing at the door, hoping no one had overheard him talking to the - mostly - inanimate Battery Operated Brian. “Fuck,” he cursed when he realized the name had apparently stuck, following it with a halfhearted shrug when he decided it didn’t really matter.

After enjoying a leisurely shower - he had a rare day off work and wasn’t meeting his mom at the diner until nine - he clambered down the stairs to the kitchen, where he was greeted by Harley chirping loudly, “ _Hellooo, Briaaan._ ”

Peering over the top of the newspaper, Vic shot a smug grin at him.

Flushing, Justin surmised, “I take it I was really loud last night?”

“Woke me up,” Vic confirmed with a nod, chuckling, “after I’d dozed off in my armchair. All that screaming inspired me to teach Harley a new greeting this morning. Not that the little fellow didn’t get an earful last night…”

Whether Vic had given the budgie some kind of verbal prompt, or whether Harley just wanted to test out his new word, the blond wasn’t certain, but the parakeet again peeped, “ _Hello, Briaaaaaaan_ ,” his ex-lover’s name seeming particularly drawn out this time.

“Deb asked me to tell you that she regrets missing all the action,” Vic teased. “She only caught the final moan of ‘Brian!’ as she returned from driving Daphne home.”

“Fuck,” Justin eloquently replied, floundering about for something to say as he poured himself a cup of joe.

“I’d say you and _Bob_ definitely did that,” Vic jested. “I told Sis she shouldn’t have to wait long for a reprise.”

“Fuck,” the teen reiterated, turning a deeper shade of red. “Yeah,” he then admitted sheepishly, “there probably will be many encores.”

“Good,” the older man nodded, “I’d hate to forego my nightly entertainment.”

Justin grabbed the international news section, so he could hide his reddening face behind it, the two men sipping their coffee and perusing the paper in silence for the next ten minutes.

“Enough of this,” Vic declared, tossing the paper aside in disgust. “The news is all about that moron Dubya taking office this January.”

“I’m going to miss Clinton,” Justin commented. “At least he gives a shit about equal rights for queers.”

“Yeah,” the older man sighed deeply, “tough times ahead, I fear. With a president like that.”

The blond shrugged. “Yeah, well, at least it can’t be worse. It can only get better from now on.”

Vic snorted. “Oh, Kid, I’m pretty sure it can get worse still. I just hope I won’t live long enough to see it.” He paused. “But enough of that depressing garbage. Tell us, what’re you up today?”

“I’m meeting my mum for breakfast at the diner,” Justin responded, glancing at his watch, “in about twenty minutes. After that, I’m thinking of visiting the Carnegie Museum of Art. Or maybe I’ll drop by the library and use one of their computers. I’m working on this really cool project in my IT class; it doesn’t even seem like schoolwork.”

“The diner’s rather out of Jennifer’s comfort zone, isn’t it?” Vic quirked an eyebrow at the teen.

“Well, she has been there before,” Justin noted, “when she talked to Debbie about what it was like to have a gay son.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Vic acknowledged. “I remember Sis thinking they’d established a rapport.”

“They might’ve built a real friendship if my mum hadn’t decided it was in her best interests to stay with Craig.” The blond shrugged in faked indifference.

“It’s okay to miss your mother, Sunshine,” the older man commisserated. “She may come around yet, you know.”

“Maybe,” Justin shrugged again. “But I’ll be fine if she doesn’t… now that I have you and Debs.”

“We’re family,” Vic affirmed, grinning at the blond. “You too, Harley,” he amended when the budgie banged his new mirror lantern against his cage. “ _Hello, Baby. Come, come, come,_ ” the blue bird chirped. “ _Hello, Briaaaan_ ,” making both men laugh.

 

As awkward as Justin’s morning conversation was, it didn’t hold a candle to what Brian’s beginning of Tuesday was like. The brunet stud woke up to the sounds of road construction, a pounding in his head, and a crick in his neck. He slowly blinked his eyes open, squinting in the early morning sun, and noticed he was on the couch. Had he really never even made it to bed?

A loud, raspy noise disturbed his thoughts, and Brian turned his aching head to his left, coming face to face with a sleeping Theodore. Apparently, what he had thought was an ongoing construction in his sleep-addled state was his friend snoring.

“Ted!” he hissed, kicking at his friend in an attempt to wake him up. “Theodore!”

“Hmm?” the other man mumbled, not opening his eyes.

Brian kicked out again, a little harder this time. “Wake up, you lazy sod,” he demanded.

Ted shifted, mumbling sleepily, “Go ’way.”

Sighing heavily, the adman heaved himself up slowly. It was time to bring out the big guns. He leaned closer to his dozing friend and whispered in his ear, “ _Auditor. Debt. Red numbers. Depreciation._ ” A frown appeared on the accountant’s face, and Brian continued with a chuckle, “ _Bankruptcy. Insolvency. Market crash._ ”

Ted finally opened his eyes, scowling at him. “You’re mean,” he complained.

The younger man rolled his eyes. “What do you mean? Was I not nice enough to let you sleep on my couch?”

Theodore glanced at his surroundings. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. Now get up, it’s already past seven,” he told his friend, pausing when he noticed the intent gaze Ted was aiming at his face. “What?”

“You look like hell,” Ted commented with an amused snort.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly going to be winning any pageants either,” he countered, staring pointedly at the older man’s wrinkled clothing.

The accountant shrugged, uncaring.

“I’m going to get ready,” Brian announced, waving his arm in the direction of his bedroom, before demanding, “ _You_ are going to make me coffee.”

Ted sighed. “Fine. Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

Brian’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe?” he drawled slowly.

The other man snorted. “I’m not gonna jerk off on it, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he deadpanned.

The younger man nodded. “In that case, yes, I have a spare toothbrush you can use.” And with those words, he went to get himself ready. He emptied his bladder, popped a painkiller for his hangover, took a lightning-fast shower, brushed his teeth, shaved off his stubble, styled his hair, and put on a deep blue Armani suit - all in less than ten minutes. Content with his appearance, he made his way back out to the living room.

Ted, who had two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, gaped at him. “What is this, _brujería_?”

Giving him a confused look, Brian asked, “What?”

“Witchcraft,” his friend explained, setting the cup on the table. “How did you go from looking like death warmed over to a GQ model in a matter of minutes?”

The younger brunet shrugged. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then, glaring at the coffee, he questioned, “Did you put sugar in mine?”

Ted rolled his eyes. “No… but I did add a little coffee to a cupful of sugar.”

Brian chuckled. “That joke is not funny anymore, Theodore.”

“I find it hilarious,” his friend retorted. “Do you know that if you cut half the sugar you consume out of your diet, you would be able to actually eat from time to time?”

“I eat,” the younger man protested.

Ted raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? What did you eat yesterday?”

Brian thought back to the single Granny Smith he’d had for breakfast and the half of a tuna sandwich Cynthia had brought him after he’d worked through his lunch break, and snapped back, “Shut up.”

His friend just laughed at him.   

 

Having said goodbye to Vic and Harley, the blond walked towards the diner, enjoying the crunch of his shoes on the fresh layer of snow. The wet stuff soon began to soak through the canvas, though, since it wasn’t at all water repellent, causing Justin to make a mental note to buy a pair of boots. Perhaps he could swing it with his next paycheck, although he hated to shell out a lot of money. Hmm, maybe Second Hand Job would have a pair that would fit him… If not, perhaps he could acquire another pair of inexpensive sneakers from Sears.

Justin clutched one gloved hand in the other, ambivalent and a little nervous about the imminent breakfast meeting with his mother. As he’d told Vic, he really didn’t miss her as much as he had expected, in part because he’d been so busy but mostly because of the way Debbie and Vic had welcomed him into their home, immediately making him feel like part of their family. They’d accepted him unconditionally, in a way he had hoped his mum would do; instead, she’d carted him off to see a therapist who was supposed to ‘cure’ him.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, the teen reminded himself that he was going from one safe place, Deb’s house, to another - the diner. This was his home turf, and there was no way Jennifer could make him feel uncomfortable or unwelcome.

As soon as he entered the eatery, he noticed his mother sitting in one of the booths. He didn’t know if it was her shiny blond hair, the ever-present aura of waspishness, or if it was the air of hetero surrounding her, but Jennifer definitely stood out.

He walked over to her, smiling awkwardly. “Hey, mum.”

She gave him a warm smile, rising to greet him. “Justin!” she called softly, hugging him. “It’s so nice to see you.”

The teenager suffered through the embrace stiffly, not quite managing to summon the enthusiasm to return it. “You too,” he murmured into his mother’s hair. She smelled nice.

“Sit down, Honey,” she motioned to the empty seat opposite her. “I want to hear everything you’ve been up to.”

Justin suppressed a snort. Yeah, right. “Not much has happened since I called you,” he told her, lying through his teeth. If he told Jennifer about the locker incident or about his new job, she’d just go off on him.

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “What about school? How are you doing?”

Jesus, this was weird, thought Justin. “Well, I’m doing well at maths,” he offered. “I’m even tutoring Daphne.”

Jennifer smiled. “That’s good, Honey,” she praised patronizingly. “I’m really pleased you’re doing well. I remember you didn’t quite like your teacher?” she hinted.

The blond shrugged, dismissing her concern, “It’s fine.” Then, wanting to change the topic and steer the conversation away from himself, he queried, “How’s Molly doing?”

“She’s wonderful,” his mother assured him. “She keeps asking after you. Maybe you could come home for Thanksgiving dinner, so you could see her?” she invited.

This time Justin did snort. “Is Craig going to be there?” he asked.

Jennifer gave him a reproachful look. “Yes, Justin, your father is going to be there - it’s the holidays, so the whole family should be together.”

The teen shook his head. “In that case, count me out. I refuse to spend my Thanksgiving pretending I’m straight.”

“No one’s asking you to do that,” his mum denied. “Your father just doesn’t want you to…” she trailed off, unsure how to phrase it.

“What?” Justin interjected. “Flaunt it? Act gay? Be myself?”

Jennifer pressed her lips tightly together. “Your dad loves you, Justin,” she chided. “If only you’d make the effort to-”

“I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not, mum!” the blond interrupted again. “I’m a fag, and if Craig can’t accept that, I don’t want to see him.”

His WASP of a mother looked around nervously at Justin’s raised voice, checking to see if anyone was looking at them. “Can you not shout, Honey?”

He deflated. “Sorry, I don’t want to be arguing with you,” he apologised. “I would love to see Molly, but I’m not setting foot anywhere my father is going to be. I’ll think of something to do with her, and then I’ll call you, ok?”

Jennifer nodded her assent. “Very well, I’m sure Molly will be happy to do something fun with you. Maybe you could take her to the zoo?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. So, uh,” he paused, “you bought that frame for the drawing I gave Molly for her birthday?”

His mother acquired a contrite look. “Not yet, I haven’t had the time,” she explained with an apologetic smile.

Justin huffed. Of course she hadn’t, he thought sarcastically; he should’ve expected her not to follow through. After all, she had to go to work every day and didn’t even have time to spend her afternoons at the country club, let alone- oh, wait… “Don’t worry about it,” he told her, taking care to keep his tone respectful. “I’ll take Molly to buy one.”

Jennifer let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Honey. Here, I’m going to give you some money, so you can buy a nice one,” she offered, pulling out her wallet.

The blond was about to refuse, when he realised he had just spent most of his own cash on a dildo and decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thank you, mum,” he accepted the twenty she slid across the table with a quirk of his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

An awkward silence followed the transaction, during which Harry came over to take their orders - Jennifer ordering a single cup of coffee, while Justin asked for a full English, something the diner didn’t offer very often but which was one of the specials on the menu today.

“It’ll be done in a jiffy,” the Asian boy grinned at them, patting Justin’s shoulder in silent support. Harry must’ve noticed the conversation was uncomfortable.

Once they’d received their orders, Jennifer took a sip of her brew, visibly steeling herself before asking, “So… how’s Brian? Are you still broken up?”

Justin raised his eyebrows. “You really want to know?”   

“Of course, I want to know,” Jennifer insisted, reaching out to cover Justin’s hand with her own. “It’s just… he’s so much older than you, Honey, and he doesn’t seem very responsible, out partying till all hours of the morning like that. I can’t help but think it would have been better if you’d dated a boy your own age…” She paused, then finished in a hesitant voice, “and maybe a couple girls, too? Just to make sure that, you know.” Jennifer broke off.

The teen slid his hand from underneath his mother’s, scowling. How could she still not be convinced Justin was gay? “Listen,” he demanded, “are you listening?”

“Of course,” his mother reiterated.

Justin barely refrained from rolling his eyes at another meaningless ‘of course’. Deciding to teach his mother a lesson she wouldn’t easily forget, the teen speared one of the bangers from his breakfast with his fork and then slowly fed it down his throat. Jennifer’s eyes kept getting wider and wider as he swallowed until he finally got it down whole. “Tasty,” Justin murmured, sitting back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “I like dick, mum,” he reminded her, “how many times do I have to tell you that?”

Jennifer sat in stunned silence for a few moments before croaking, “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Sweetie. A lot of doors are going to be closed to you if you’re gay.”

“Like your door, you mean?” Justin questioned in a flat tone.

“Our door is never closed to you,” Jennifer protested. “As long as you treat your father with respect, you can come home anytime. I’m sure Craig would take it as a gesture of goodwill if you’d just stop associating yourself with people like that… predator.” she spat out. “Why not date a nice boy your age?”

“Respect works both ways, mum,” Justin declared. “Or at least it should. Besides, I don’t see Craig accepting me dating _any_ man, no matter his age.”

Jennifer sighed in obvious frustration. “You don’t know that.”

Leaning forward, the teen decided to try a different tactic, “How old were _you_ the first time you had sex? Don’t tell me you were a virgin until you met Craig.”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with-”

Justin interrupted her, insisting, “Mum! How old?”

A clearly agitated Jennifer muttered, “Sixteen.”

Justin raised his eyebrows at her, snorting. “Now explain to me, how was it okay for you to fuck someone at sixteen, and then turn around and say I’m too young at seventeen?”

“There’s no need for such crude language,” his mother reprimanded him. Those were different times; children grew up faster back then.”

“I’m not being crude,” Justin snorted, “just calling it what it is - a fuck. Did you think you were in love with the first guy you screwed? So did I. But in the end it was still just a fuck.” The teen avoided saying that it would always be more than a fuck to him, that he’d always be grateful Brian had been so kind to him that night.

“Keep your voice down,” Jennifer hissed. “This is highly inappropriate - speaking to your mother like that. Besides, I told you it was a different situation.”

Ignoring the pained look his mum sent his way, Justin continued in the same level tone, “I call bullshit. If anything, kids grow up faster now.”

“That’s not true,” Jennifer denied.

“Whatever, that’s irrelevant,” the teen noted, not wanting to get into an argument about how older generations had it harder. “The point is, we both like dick. Did my grandparents take _you_ to a therapist because of it?”

“Of course not,” Jennifer replied, “but, like I was trying to explain, those are two completely different situations-”

“You mean it was okay for a girl to like cock,” Justin sneered, barraging her with more questions. “Did they ground you? Keep you from seeing the bloke you were fucking? Or did they treat you like an adult and let you make your own choices?” He paused, glaring at his mother. “You used to do that, you know? Up until you found out I was gay, that is. I mean, did you really think that suddenly grounding me at age seventeen was going to be effective? That it would keep me from seeing Brian?”

“It’s an entirely different set of circumstances,” Jennifer insisted. Then, clearly reconsidering her strategy, she went on the offensive again, “Honey, all I’m concerned about is your _friend’s_ wild lifestyle - all the partying, alcohol, and the drugs.”

“Mum, let’s stay on track,” Justin suggested. “The issue is the double standard you’re applying. It shouldn’t be any different for me to have sex at seventeen than it was for you at sixteen.”

Jennifer proved intransigent. “Stop throwing that in my face,” she demanded. “You’re just too young, Justin, and that’s final! Boys don’t mature as early as girls.”

The teen’s eyes narrowed as his mother’s gaze skittered away. “What about the guy you slept with? Wasn’t he too immature, then?” he questioned.

Jennifer was beyond angry. “He was older!” she cried out. “He was already twenty-three, so he knew what he was doing. You’re seventeen, Justin!”

The blond gaped at her. “So it was okay for you to sleep with an _older_ man, but it’s criminal if I do it?”

Realising she had screwed up, Jennifer lowered her eyes. “Twenty-three is not as old as Brian,” she protested.

“Just how old is too old?” Justin tilted his head in curiosity. “Seven years is okay, but twelve years isn’t?”

“That’s beside the point, Justin,” Jennifer replied primly. “If only you’d just listen to me. Men like Brian aren’t good for you - he’s irresponsible and dangerous...”

“Fuck, mum, I was lucky to get picked up by Brian that night on Liberty,” Justin confessed. “I was _safe_ with Brian from the moment I met him. You know you raised me to be responsible; you should trust my judgment. I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him had I thought there was a chance he would hurt me.”

“But he _is_ hurting you - exposing you to all sorts of decadent behavior, foisting drugs on you,” Jennifer repeated for what seemed like the umpteenth time. What the hell had Debbie told her about Brian? he wondered.

The conversation clearly having reached an impasse, Justin sighed in resignation. “Mum,” he requested, “could you just think about what I’ve said? I don’t want to constantly argue with you. Maybe we could talk some more after Thanksgiving?”

“If you’ll promise to think about what I’ve said too,” Jennifer acquiesced.

Without actually responding to her request, the teen offered diplomatically, “I’d really like to see you again.”

Jennifer nodded, silent. They stared at each other for a few seconds, before she stood, placing her bag over her shoulder, “Well, I guess that’s-”

“Wait, mum, did you bring my birth certificate?” Justin hastily asked.

“I still don’t see any reason it shouldn’t be kept safe and secure in our home,” his mother replied haltingly. “Why don’t you wait till you really need it?”

“Mum, your house isn’t my home any longer,” Justin blunty declared.

Jennifer’s face fell, but Justin couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for her. He waited patiently as his mother slowly reached into her handbag, then hesitantly placed an envelope containing the certificate on the table. Jesus, that had been like pulling teeth.

“Thanks,” Justin acknowledged, hugging his mum, who held herself stiffly for a moment before eventually returning the embrace. As he watched her walk out the door, he reflected that although he still loved him mum dearly and he did want to see her again, it just wasn’t like it used to be. His home was with Debs and Vic now, and he was happy.

 

The ringing of his desk phone interrupted Brian from his contemplation of the art department’s newest attempt at a dog. He glanced at the offending device, noticing the small light next to ‘ _line 1’_ flickering, indicating it was Cynthia calling.

He pressed the speaker button, grunting. “What?”

“Brian,” said his secretary’s cultured voice, “there is Mr Ryder’s assistant here to see you.”

Brian snorted. Ryder’s assistant? Since when did Ryder send his lackeys to deal with Brian? Would the woman he’d hired only for her prominent rack even remember what she was supposed to tell Brian? Well, if he wasn’t good enough for the man to meet him personally and say whateverthefuck he wanted to tell him face to face, he wouldn’t make it easy on him.

“Tell her I’m busy and take a message,” he instructed her. Then he thought better of it. “Or, you know what? Send ‘Big Boob’ away and then later go over to Ryder’s office and ask her what the message was. Or even better, send her away and then go over and tell her to come back here, so you can take her message. Or-”

“Thank you, Brian,” Cynthia interrupted him snarkily. “That was very helpful.” And with that she hung up.

The brunet huffed out a laugh, before sitting back in his chair and waiting for his personal assistant to come in with the message. She did, not even a minute later, with an amused smile on her face.

“I have a message for you, Mr Kinney,” she intoned, fluttering her eyelashes, reminiscent of a sixties’ bimbo secretary. Then, dropping the act, she finished, “Ryder wants you to meet with him and his legal bulldogs at ten tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Brian gasped, losing his relaxed mood. “Is the man completely doolally?”

Cynthia sighed. “He’s clearly trying to put you under pressure, hoping you won’t be prepared. It’s a good thing you had an echo,” she told him with a self-satisfied smirk. “Now you better get into contact with your own lawyer.”

The adman rubbed a tired hand down his face. “Yeah, fuck.”

His assistant gave him a sympathetic look. “I tell you what, you call your lawyer, and I’ll go and get us something to eat, ok? Then we’ll sit down and talk this through - Ryder will not catch you unprepared.”

Brian nodded with a heavy sigh. “If Melanie’s busy tomorrow, I don’t give a fuck about what Ryder says, he’s gonna have to postpone the meeting. I’m not going to be rushed when my career’s at stake.”

The blonde smiled. “You tell him, boss,” she encouraged. “Now, I’m off to the new café that opened at the corner - I heard they have some wonderful French sandwiches and desserts.”

The ad exec hmmed absentmindedly, already scrolling through the contacts in his mobile  for Melanie’s number. By the time his office door closed behind Cynthia’s clacking heels, he was dialling.

“ _Jacobs, Knox, and Lopez_ , Melanie Marcus speaking,” the dyke’s voice announced over the line. Good, thought Brian, he had got her direct line.

“Melanie,” he greeted her. “It’s Brian.”

“Brian who?” she snarked, causing the brunet to roll his eyes.

“Hilarious,” he deadpanned. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“Depends,” she answered. “Are you asking me on a date or do you need me professionally? If it’s the former, I’m busy.”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” the brunet adman warned. “I think my dick’s about to fall off just thinking about a date with you. As it happens, I need your services. Ryder’s finally on the move; he’s called a meeting for tomorrow at ten.”

Melanie huffed, “Wishful thinking that you’d garner _that_ expertise from me,” before muttering, “Let me check my schedule for tomorrow. I know I don’t have to be in court till the afternoon.”

While he waited, Brian nervously picked at a hangnail - a terrible habit, since it ruined his expensive manicure, but one which sometimes emerged when he was feeling stressed.

“You’re in luck,” Melanie informed him moments later, “although _only_ for my legal services. One of my partners has agreed to handle my client meetings in the morning.”

“Can you be here by nine-thirty?” Brian requested. “I’ll even spring for a cup of coffee - on top of your legal fees.”

“I’ll buy my own,” Melanie riposted, “rather than drink that sugary sludge that you’re addicted to.”

“What the fuck is it with you and Ted disparaging my coffee habit?” Brian complained.

“Maybe because there’s so little actual coffee involved?” the bulldyke lawyer suggested.

“Hmpfh,” Brian weakly retorted, refusing to consider that his friends _might_ have a point. “Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you?”

“Listen, Brian, I’ve got to go,” Melanie declared. “Larry Jacobs and I are finishing preparations for an important trial. I’ll be at your office by nine-thirty tomorrow. Ryder’s a fool for pushing to terminate you so quickly; we’re going to take him to the cleaners, and we’ll get you a heckuva payout in the process.”

“Good,” Brian snapped out. “The fucker has it coming.”

After hanging up, Brian speculated as to whether Ryder was assuming the other account execs would be able to take over his accounts immediately. That would be ridiculous, not only given their own workloads, but also because Brian had done a great deal of research, established contacts, and generally put a lot of work into his accounts. It wouldn’t be at all easy for someone to just step in and take his place, not when he was the one his clients trusted.

“Cynthia, get in here,” he yelled, belatedly remembering his assistant had gone to get something to eat. To his surprise, however, she breezed into his office moments later, takeout containers in her hands.

“You bellowed?” she drolled. “I could hear you down by the elevators.”

“Well, what’s the point of yelling if you aren’t going to hear me?” Brian enquired reasonably.

Cynthia rolled her eyes as she set one of the containers down in front of him. “Try this,” she recommended. “It’s blue cheese toast with honey. They were handing out samples of some of their dishes, and I thought you might like this.”

“Sounds like a lot of calories,” Brian scowled at the inoffensive carton.

“There’s more calories in one of your cups of coffee,” the blonde snorted as she sat down across from him, her own carton staying unopened in her lap.

Brian scowled some more. What _was_ it with everyone dissing his perfectly ordinary coffee? The toast did smell tempting, though, so he finally flicked the lid up, unconsciously licking his lips when he saw the golden-brown sourdough toast, blue cheese crumbled on top, lightly drizzled with honey. Lifting a slice of the toast to his mouth, he took a small bite, chewing slowly while his secretary eyed him.

“Well?” she demanded when he didn’t say a word.

“It’s… edible,” Brian allowed. “Why would you get this for me anyway? You know my usual orders.”

“There’s honey on it, so I thought you might like it,” Cynthia replied, shrugging. “You _do_ have a something of a sweet tooth, even if you don’t indulge it very often.”

“No part of me is sweet,” the ad exec grumbled. “Not even a tooth.”

The blonde smirked at her boss. “You’re right, you’re anything but sweet, Mr Grumpy Pants. I thought you could use a bit of sweetening up.”

The brunet opened his mouth to protest all those unnecessary calories once more, but then he recalled Ted asking if he ever ate anything and promptly shut his gob. “Mmm,” he moaned as he took another bite, “not bad.”

“Such high praise,” Cynthia commented drily, although she was grinning at what truly was approval from Brian.

As he rapidly consumed his toast, Brian observed, “With Ryder likely to boot me out soon, we should strategize about how to handle this. What do you think, which of my clients might follow me to my new firm?”

Cynthia considered this, tilting her head to the left. “Well, Liberty Air only really signed because of you, so they might be amenable. Especially as their contract is about to expire,” she mulled out loud. “It’s a bit more complicated with Kofola and Iams - though you’ve brought them on personally, they would have to terminate their contracts with Ryder first.”

Brian nodded. “Yeah, Ted warned me they might not want to pay the fees. It’s understandable.”

“Ted?” his secretary questioned. “As in your friend, Theodore Schmidt?”

“Yeah,” the brunet admitted. “I asked him for advice the other day and he had some valuable insights - not that I’ll ever admit to saying that, especially not in front of him. I asked him to work for me.”

His assistant’s eyes brightened. “Oh, did he agree?”

“Said he needed to think it over,” Brian replied. “We were a bit drunk at the time, and he wanted a clear head.”

Cynthia hmmed. “Speaking of potential employees,” she began. “I was thinking we might ask Bethany from accounting to consider a job at the _AdStud_ ,” she finished with a teasing grin.

“The what?” asked a horrified Brian. “I am not calling my agency that!”

His friend rolled her eyes. “It was just a joke,” she explained. “You’re really uptight today.”

“You’d be too if you were about to get fired,” the brunet mumbled.

Cynthia looked unsympathetic. “Isn’t getting fired what you want?”

“Whatever,” Brian shrugged it off. “What were you saying about Gertrude?”

The blond huffed. “You’re doing that on purpose - there’s no way you actually think that’s her name. It doesn’t even sound anything like it,” she complained, before continuing, “I said, I was thinking that _Bethany_ might be a good addition to our team. She’s got a good head on her shoulders and likes you better than Ryder.”

“That might have something to do with you giving her the last of your Godiva chocolates,” muttered Brian.

“Ha!” Cynthia called out victoriously. “You _do_ know who I’m talking about! Gertrude, my arse!”

“Of course I remember fucking Bethany from accounting!” the brunet admitted. “She cost me my chocolates.”

“ _My_ chocolates,” amended Cynthia. “So? What do you think?”

“I think I have a job to do - as long as I still have a job - and these accounts won’t sort themselves,” he said dismissively, waving the Kofola and Iams folders in her face.

His PA folded her arms across her chest. “Fine, you get back to work. I’m gonna take these chocolate-filled éclairs back to my desk,” she said flippantly, grabbing her still-unopened food carton and promptly leaving his office.

“Éclairs?” Brian called out. “You never said anything about éclairs!”

Cynthia just cackled evilly. Women, the brunet thought in exasperated resignation. Thank god he was a fag.

With a heavy sigh, he returned his attention to his accounts. He didn’t really feel like working on them if his efforts were just going to go to Ryder anyway, but he had a reputation to uphold, so he decided to suck it up. Opening the Iams folder, he stared at the newest dog design - it was by far the best attempt yet. Picking up a pen, he went on to make comments in the margins of the art department’s proposal - he had to look like he was trying to keep his job at Ryder anyway, so why not do a good job on his last accounts?

 

Justin slowly sank back down onto the banquette, lifting up the flap of the envelope his mother had given him to check that it did, indeed, contain his birth certificate - not that he was sure what he’d do if it weren’t there. It felt odd, doubting his mum like this, but she’d been so flaky lately that the teen found hard to trust her. Once he’d ascertained that it _was_ , in fact, the right document, he desultorily poked at the fried egg in front of him with his fork, then shoved the now cold food aside.

“Here, Kiddo, have a fresh one,” Debbie’s warm voice proclaimed, right before she slid a fresh English breakfast in front of Justin, the plateful of food still steaming slightly. “It doesn’t look like you ate much,” she chided, a concerned expression on her face as she took a seat across from the blond.

Justin gave her a one-shouldered shrug, mumbling, “I’m okay. I lost my appetite, is all.”

“Sunshine, something’s definitely wrong if you’re not hungry for a full English,” the motherly woman declared. “Did everything go okay with Jennifer?” she probed. “It looked like the two of you were having a pretty intense discussion. I didn’t want to interfere, or I would’ve come over to say hello.”

“Thanks for letting me talk to her on my own,” Justin acknowledged. He then shrugged in resignation and noted somewhat bitterly, “Same old thing. Mum didn’t really listen, since she’s certain she knows what’s best for me - which is pretty much diametrically opposed to the way I’m living my life.”

“Buck up, Kiddo.” Debbie encouraged him. “You’ve got me and Vic in your corner.” With a wink and a snap of her gum, she portentously intoned, “So that means you definitely must be doing something right, dontcha think?”

The young man could feel his spirits reviving as they chatted, and he was soon chowing down on bangers, fried egg, bacon, baked beans, mushrooms, and hash browns, with his surrogate mother nodding approvingly, “Now that’s more like it.”

“Mum did bring my birth certificate,” Justin shared the news in between bites of rashers and beans, pointing to the manila envelope.

“That’s wonderful,” Debs exclaimed. “Now you won’t have any problems setting up your bank account once you turn eighteen.”

Justin grinned at the redhead, feeling more like his normal self. He shouldn’t have gotten discouraged by the talk with his mother, he mused; it wasn’t as though anything unexpected had happened.

“I hate to ask, Honey, since I know you haven’t had a free afternoon in weeks,” Debs relayed, “but Kiki just called in sick.”

“You want me to take her shift?” Justin eagerly jumped in, not waiting for her to finish.

Debbie chuckled fondly. “That’s exactly right, Sunshine. I was thinking of working a short shift myself - I’d like to stop at the market to pick up some items for our Thanksgiving feast. We’re ridiculously shorthanded right now, unfortunately, with one other gal out sick and another server off snowboarding in Vermont.”

“Please go,” Justin urged. “I wouldn’t mind earning a bit more of the ready.” Although he didn’t mention it, he figured it would also be a good distraction after his chat with Jennifer. All in all, he’d much rather work than visit a museum or fiddle with his IT project.

“Harry had the same reaction,” Debbie commented, “so he’s agreed to work a double shift. I guess everyone wants some extra spending money with the holidays rapidly approaching.”

“Cool, I like working with Harry.” Justin responded.

Ten minutes later, Deb waved as she headed out the door, jesting in a loud voice, “Don’t you boys let Fahad burn the place down.”

“Like these two could stop me if I wanted to raze this old eatery,” the chef shouted, sticking his head out the pass-through.

The three men laughed as Deb shot the finger at Fahad whilst grinning broadly.

“Only Debs could make that gesture look so cheerful,” Harry remarked cheekily as the redhead disappeared from sight.

“I’ll give you more than one finger,” an irate man yelled, “if you don’t deliver my brekkie soon.”

Fahad cocked an eyebrow at the fuming customer, cautioning, “You’ll get your meal when I’m good and ready to give it to you, buddy, not before.” He then vanished into the kitchen.

After grabbing the carafe of coffee from its hotplate, Justin trotted over to the disgruntled man, offering with a winning smile, “Here, let me top that up for you.”

“Sorry, lad, didn’t mean to take it out on you,” the bloke apologised. “I’ve got a job interview later today, and I’m kinda nervous.”

“I’ll just have a word with the chef,” the blond suggested, “and see if I can’t get you your meal pronto.” Feeling a surge of sympathy for the profusely sweating customer, he volunteered, “The cook’s a great guy, unless he feels like he’s being harassed…”

The sweaty dude nodded at him gratefully, and when he departed forty minutes later, he left behind a twenty-dollar tip.

Beaming, Justin slipped the tip into his apron pocket. Harry clapped him on the back, opining, “You earned that one, Jus. Good work handling Mr Overactive Sweat Gland.”

“He wasn’t so bad,” the blond replied. “I hope he gets the job he’s interviewing for.”

Harry shuddered, “As long as he’s not working here…” making Justin giggle.

“That would be a bit much,” the teen agreed with a shudder of his own. “It must be horrid to sweat like that.”

The two young men spent the rest of the day bantering with each other, the kitchen staff, and their customers, until their replacements - a couple of dykes Justin didn’t know very well, but who liked working the night shift together - arrived at 10 p.m.

He must not be the only knackered one, Justin decided when he got home fifteen minutes later. There was a night light on by the stairs, but the house was otherwise dark, Harley’s cage covered, and no light shining from underneath either Deb or Vic’s doors.

After a quick session with _Bob_ , the teen fell asleep, a sated smile on his lips...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'd like to share a bit about how Tricky Business has developed with you - our readers. For that purpose, we've created a FanDoc, which we will update regularly with teasers for upcoming chapters, notifications about prizes to be awarded, and fun fan moments.
> 
> This document is yours - feel free to add comments and to discuss what you've enjoyed and what you'd like to see. Any discussion might even influence the story - you never know… :)
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit


	21. Chapter 21

“Hey up, Vic,” Justin called out as he entered the house after a short morning shift at the diner.

“In here,” Vic called from the kitchen, where Harley chirped, “Hello, Baby,” ringing the bell attached to his mirror lantern as the teen entered the room.

“Hello, Harley,” Justin greeted the budgie with a bright smile. Turning to Vic, he drily commented, “I much prefer that greeting. Wean him off that other one, wouldya?”

Unfortunately for the blond’s peace of mind, Harley chose that moment to chitter, “Hellooo, Briaaan.”

“I’m never gonna hear the end of that, am I?” Justin sighed resignedly.

“Nope. You’re stuck with it,” the older man confirmed with a chuckle. “On the other hand, if you had a session with _Bob_ last night, neither Deb nor I heard a thing. We were both dead to the world.”

The teen grinned smugly. “Your loss.”

“Sis is gonna think she’s jinxed,” Vic chuckled again, “being deprived of vicariously experiencing _Bob_.”

“She’ll get another chance,” Justin vouched, not even bothering to note how inappropriate the conversation really was, then changed the subject. “Did you still want to clean the house today?”

“Everything but the attic,” the older man agreed. “I think we’ve already got that under control. I’m just setting out ingredients for pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, and pumpkin custard so we can get a head start on tomorrow’s baking.”

“Are all the desserts gonna be pumpkin?” the teen inquired. “My mum never made pumpkin custard; that sounds intriguing.”

“Pumpkin for now. The custard is easy to make - you just have to be careful that you don’t burn yourself with the hot water that surrounds the custard dishes.” Vic informed him. “Later, it’ll be apple pie, apple crisp, and applesauce. And then there’s zucchini bread, gingerbread, cranberry-”

“Enough,” Justin protested. “Hadn’t you better leave something for tomorrow?”

Vic shot Justin a look of pity. “Tomorrow it’s all the main courses and side dishes, Kiddo. This is _the_ major holiday in the Grassi-Novotny household.”

“Bigger than Christmas?” Justin questioned in surprise.

“Hmm, yes,” Vic absently replied as he counted out the eggs he needed for the various pumpkin-based desserts. “When we were growing up, it was always Thanksgiving that all the relatives and friends would descend on Nonna and Nonno for. That’s not to say we don’t have a big do at Christmas as well; really, both gatherings are about the same size nowadays.

“Will any of your relatives be coming to help celebrate?” the blond lad wondered. He hadn’t even considered that possibility, the Grassi-Novotny family seeming to consist only of Deb, Vic, and Michael.

“It’s unlikely,” Vic replied, “although we did send out the usual invitations to various people. Mama was embarrassed by my ‘gayness’ after I came out, and some of my aunts and uncles were freaked out about exposing my cousins to me, in case it proved contagious.”

“Numbskulls,” Justin muttered. Vic was so comfortable in his own skin that he tended to forget that the older man had grown up in an era when it must’ve been even tougher to be out and proud.

“Folks were pretty freaked out by the whole AIDS epidemic, when most of them became aware of it in the eighties,” Vic explained. “Some people believed you could catch it just by touching a gay person, whether or not the individual had been diagnosed with the disease. I wasn’t HIV positive back then, but you wouldn’t have known that by the way some of my family and friends shunned me.”

“It’s not a death sentence now, though, right?” Justin questioned, frowning at Vic in concern. “You’re doing okay, aren’t you?” He knew his surrogate father had been really sick not that long ago, but he’d assumed everything was under control now, the older man much healthier than he had been.

“I’m fine, Sunshine,” Vic reassured him. “Well as fine as I can be with this fucking disease. I promise, though, I’m not about to shuffle off this mortal coil.”

The teen grinned at the allusion to _Hamlet_ . “You’d better not,” he threatened, “or you won’t get to listen to me play with _Bob_.”

“If nothing else, _that’ll_ keep me here,” Vic readily affirmed with a laugh.

“Oh, speaking of guests, I almost forgot,” Justin exclaimed, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand. “There _will_ be someone new for dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh, who?” the older man queried.

“That detective I finally reported my torched locker and the bullying to - the one who’s investigating the burglary at Brian’s loft? Justin disclosed. “Well he stopped by the diner this morning for some lemon bars, and I asked him what he was doing for Thanksgiving…”

“You invited a policeman?” Vic stared at him in shock. “Whatever for? You really can’t trust a flatfoot, Kiddo.”

“Detective Horvath is different,” the teenager protested. “He and his partner are really concerned about the situation at St. James. He made me feel like a stupid kid for not reporting it sooner, but he also let me know he was proud of me for finally doing the right thing.”

“Hmm, I suppose this Horvath might be the exception to the rule,” Vic mused.

“He really is,” Justin assured him. “He gives good advice too, even when I don’t like to hear it.”

“Well, then, lad, I’m glad you’ve found someone to look up to,” the older man claimed, smiling at the blond. “So the detective’s going to join us?”

“Yeah, but he’ll be late,” Justin revealed. “He’s on some kind of weird shift and doesn’t get off till two o’clock in the afternoon. The detective was just going to head home and sack out in front of whatever football game was on the telly. I really felt bad for him. It’s a day to be with friends and family.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Vic chuckled. “It’ll be a real test of his character coping with this crazy group, though. We’ll see if he survives.”

“After he stuck his foot in his mouth with Kiki at first, she’s grown really fond of find, says he’s ‘a real gent’,” Justin divulged.

“We’ll see,” Vic muttered skeptically.

“I checked with Debs before I asked him,” the younger man informed Vic. “She felt sorry for him too - didn’t want him to be all alone. So, you’re gonna make him feel welcome, right?” he concluded a bit anxiously.

“Since he’s your guest, yeah,” Vic agreed.

“Um, what’re you doing?” Justin asked as Vic took a container with cut-up chunks of butter from the freezer.

“Hmm?” Vic mumbled as he measured and placed flour, sugar, and salt into a mixing bowl.

“The butter,” Justin prompted.

“Oh, it’s for the pie crust,” Vic explained.

“Why didn’t you buy some of those frozen shells from the store - or a package of graham cracker crusts?” Justin wondered.

The older man stared aghast at the teen. “Nothing tastes as good as homemade crust, Sunshine,” he asserted. “It doesn’t take that long to prepare the dough either, once you get the hang of it.”

“It seems like a lot of trouble to me,” Justin replied. “I can’t remember my mum ever making pie crust from scratch. She always claimed the frozen ones were just as good - and less likely to result in burnt edges.”

“Put on an apron and get that bubble butt of yours over here,” Vic ordered. “I’ll turn you into a pro at rolling out dough in no time. Come the feast tomorrow, you’ll be telling me how right I am about what makes a good pie crust.”

Half an hour later, when they placed two pumpkin pies in the oven, Justin was liberally doused with flour, but pleased with the results of his introduction to creating crust from scratch.

“Say ‘cock,’” Vic requested, causing Justin to turn around in startlement as the older man snapped a photo with the Polaroid camera. “Looking sharp,” he jested when the photo printed out a few minutes later - two blue eyes peering out from a flour-dusted face, more flour in the blond’s hair, a large daub of dough decorating one of his tennis shoes.

“I’ll have to dust you off along with the furniture,” Vic jested as he affixed the photo on the fridge, next to the one of the intrepid attic-cleaning trio.

“Have at it,” Justin invited with a broad grin, handing Vic the feather duster from the hall closet.

“C’mon, let’s see how much cleaning we can get done before we need to check on the pies,” Vic proposed.

Three hours later, two golden-brown pies and three loaves of bread rested on cooling racks on the kitchen counter, a pan with twelve pumpkin custard cups was in the oven, and the entire house was spic and span - except for the cleaning crew.

“I’d better grab a shower, since I’m babysitting Gus in a bit,” Justin stated, glancing down the length of his grime and flour-bedecked body.

“Yeah, then Gus can decorate you all over again,” Vic laughed. “Go on. I’ll take care of the custard and then wash myself off after you’re done.”

The blond raced up the stairs, imagining all the fun he and the wee nipper would have together...

 

While Justin was covering himself in flour, Brian was fidgeting at his desk, waiting for Melanie to arrive. He refused to admit he was nervous about the upcoming meeting with Ryder - nerves were for pathetic morons and _girls_ , and he certainly wasn’t any of those. When he realized that his right leg was again jiggling in counterpoint to the drumming of his fingers on his desk blotter, he made a conscious effort to stop both motions. He managed to stay still for about ten seconds before the jiggling and drumming resumed.

Moments later - at 9:28 according to his Bvlgari wristwatch - his intercom buzzed, causing him to jump in his seat and emit a most unmanly squeak. “Fuck,” he muttered as he punched the blinking red button, barking, “What?” at his assistant.

“Ms. Melanie Marcus is here to see you,” Cynthia stated in an overly-polite tone, letting Brian know his attitude was wearing thin, regardless of the reason for it.

“She’s early,” the ad exec blurted, immediately wanting to bang his head on his desk, knowing he’d sounded like a complete moron.

“By two whole minutes,” the bulldyke attorney chuckled, rapping her knuckles against his ajar door before stepping into the office.

Brian looked longingly at the steaming cup of Starbucks she was holding. As he was wondering why the fuck he hadn’t thought to request that she pick up a coffee for him, the lawyer pulled her hand from behind her back, setting another cup with the black and green logo down in front of him.

“That’s what you like - a triple-shot latte - right?” she questioned.

“Fuck, you’re a lifesaver,” Brian croaked, too grateful for the latte to come up with any snark.

“You’re still not getting a date,” Melanie quipped. “Before you ask, I had the barista pour in half the sugar bowl, so it should be sweet enough for you.”

Brian shuddered, retorting, “One latte does not entitle _you_ to a date with _me_. How’d you know what I drink anyway?”

“Christ, Brian, that’s what you demand Linds and I pick up from Starbucks before we’re allowed to enter the loft,” Melanie replied in exasperation. “How could I not know - including the half bowl of sugar?”

“It’s the price of admission to my holy sanctum,” Brian joshed, disregarding the repeated reference to his sugar habit.

“A real man would take it black,” Meanie professed as she took a seat across from Brian.

“And put hair on my chest?” the brunet retorted. “I’ll leave that to you.”

“You’re hilarious,” the lawyer responded, evidently at a loss for a witty comeback.

“I know,” Brian smugly agreed, giving himself a mental pat on the back for eliciting such a weak rejoinder.

“Let’s talk about what might happen in the meeting with Ryder - and how you should respond,” Melanie suggested as they sipped their coffee. “I doubt he’ll try to terminate you ‘at will’. You could too easily sue for discrimination, and Ryder would end up with the very scandal he’s trying to avoid.”

“What grounds will he use to fire me, then?” Brian inquired, his brow furrowing. The idea of opening his own agency was becoming more and more appealing, but he hated to start off with his reputation besmirched. That wouldn’t help him win clients.

“He’ll most like terminate you for ‘behavior’,” Melanie replied, “because you’ve cast this firm into a bad light.”

“What about Thomas?” Brian growled. “That slimy git is the one who’s responsible for this whole mess.”

“Ryder will have to terminate him for the same reason,” Melanie declared, a shark-like grin on her face. “Otherwise, he could never defend his decision to let you go - and you could still scream discrimination.”

Brian grinned back, “Marty’s CFO will be none too happy about that. I gather Thomas was hired because his daddy is the CFO’s buddy.”

“Foolish to hire that way rather than based on competence,” Melanie snorted. “Keep in mind that we can’t control the severance package that Kip Thomas obtains from Ryder. We can only secure the best possible deal for you.”

“I’m going to crush that slimy worm beneath the heel of my Jimmy Choos if he gets hired by another advertising firm in the Pitts,” Brian grated out, thumping one boot-clad foot down on his desk and making Melanie laugh.

“I’m sure you’ll figure out how to do just that,” she chuckled, “but let’s stick it to Ryder first, okay?”

“I’m all for that,” Brian fumed. “I’d love to drive Marty out of business - keeping me here with all that meaningless bullshit about making me his partner.”

“So,” Melanie recapped, “you’ll be satisfied with the proceedings as long as Ryder terminates you but does not otherwise besmirch your reputation.”

“He can refer to it as a mutual fucking decision for all I care,” Brian conceded, “as long as the non-compete clause is null and void.”

“I won’t budge on that point,” the bulldyke reassured him. “Ryder must also offer you a severance package large enough that you can use it to fund your own agency. Are we agreed on the baseline figure?”

“Yes, although I’d like to squeeze even more out of him,” Brian acknowledged.

“I think that very well may happen,” Melanie responded, “Ryder has backed himself into a corner, with having insufficient grounds to fire you. You’re sure you don’t want to fight this?” she double-checked. “I’m quite certain you’d win.”

“I’m ready to set out on my own,” Brian confirmed, “and I can’t wait to see the last of this place after all the harassment bullshit and lack of support from Ryder.”

“Where are we meeting Ryder?” Mel asked when they were done, glancing at the Crosby wall clock behind Brian as she returned the papers they’d been perusing to her briefcase.

“No need to rush,” Brian remarked, leaning back in his chair and taking a another swallow of his latte. “We’re meeting in Marty’s office - just down the hall. It’s all a power game, since meetings like this would normally take place in a conference room. I refuse to pander to Ryder’s over-inflated ego by being there before the last second. Let him worry that I’m going to be late - which I never am, when it comes to business.”

“Unlike when it comes to your personal life,” Melanie quipped.

“My friends can - and do - wait,” Brian riposted, his mouth quirking upward at one corner. “And tricks are a dime a dozen. My reputation as an adman, however, is priceless.”

“Talk about over-inflated egos,” Mel drawled, shaking her head.

“It’s justified,” Brian gloated. “I’m the best adman the Pitts has ever seen.”

After checking the time on his wristwatch - ninety seconds to go - Brian stood up and sauntered out the door, his nearly empty latte in his hand.

Melanie moved up beside him in the hallway, accidentally jostling his arm.

“Watch it,” the brunet snarled. “Don’t get anything on my shirt. It’s Zegna.”

“You really are-” Melanie broke off when Brian glanced at his watch again before knocking on the door at the end of the corridor. “Incredible,” she hissed as the second-hand on Brian’s watch ticked over to ten on the dot. “I didn’t realize you were dead serious about arriving here at exactly the last second.”

Brian smirked at the attorney as an annoyed voice called, “Come in.”

“I didn’t think you were going to make it, Kinney,” Marty Ryder announced, standing up as Brian ushered Melanie into the office.

“I’m never late to a meeting. You know that… Marty,” the brunet replied slowly, the pause before he spoke his boss’ first name verging on insult.

“Who’s this?” Ryder inquired sharply, clearly taken aback to have someone besides himself, Brian, and two staff from the legal department present.

“I’m Melanie Marcus,” Brian’s companion introduced herself, holding out her hand. “Mr Kinney’s lawyer - the one who vetted his original contract with your firm.”

“You don’t need an attorney, Brian,” Ryder blustered, suddenly reverting to the adman’s first name. “It’s just for the good of the firm - and for you - that we make some staffing changes.”

“I’m not sure I can trust you any longer… Marty,” Brian sneered, “considering how you’ve handled Kip Thomas’ unfounded accusations.”

“It would be foolish of Mr Kinney to forego legal representation,” Melanie interposed in a frosty voice, “if, as he suspects, you plan to to terminate his employment. Is that what’s happening here, gentlemen?” she inquired, eyeing the three men, all of whom were seated behind Ryder’s imposing desk.

“Yes, well, um,” an unprepossessing Marty Ryder mumbled, blinking at them owlishly from behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, “we do have grounds, you see.”

“I’ll take it from here,” the head of legal advised.

“You are?” Melanie inquired.

The man gave his name, but Brian didn’t listen since he didn’t plan to deal with him in the future.

“Have a seat, Ms Marcus,” Brian invited, waving toward the only chair in front of Ryder’s desk.

“Oh, ehm, grab another chair for Brian, would you?” Ryder directed the dogsbody from legal.

The pudgy man scurried over to the other side of the office, pulling a chair away from the conference table and dragging it over to Brian.

“Thank you,” the adman politely acknowledged the gofer’s efforts, sitting down and nonchalantly crossing one leg over the other. He’d kill himself before he ever let himself get that out of shape, Brian mused, wincing as Pudge panted his way back to his chair.

“Look, Mr Kinney. Ms Marcus. We want to make this as painless as possible,” the gray-haired, dessicated beanstalk who headed legal, explained.

“What exactly is it we’re discussing?” Melanie inquired, arching an eyebrow at the old fart. “It would be best to spell it out, don’t you agree?”

“Er, yes, of course,” Mr Beanstalk replied, fumbling with some papers in front of him. “The firm has decided,” he pompously decreed, “that it would be best for all parties if Mr Kinney were dismissed for gross misconduct unbecoming an ad executive.”

Brian could feel his muscles tensing, but before he could speak, Melanie cooly asked, “What is the misconduct you’re referring to? When my client retained my services two weeks ago, I was given to understand that” - she paused as if consulting her notes - “a Mr Kip Thomas had made inappropriate advances to Mr Kinney, which my client duly rebuffed - and that those advances were witnessed by Mr Ryder himself.” Folding her hands in her lap, she inquired, “Is that not correct?”

Beanstalk denied, “Only in part. Mr Thomas has indicated that there were incidents prior to that one. Plus, Mr Ryder isn’t entirely sure what he walked in on, so Mr Thomas may have been correct in his allegations.”

Chickenshit bastard, Brian fumed to himself, suddenly worried that Thomas - and Ryder - might get away with such blatant lies.

“Really?” Melanie inquired, staring directly at Ryder. “Are you prepared to swear to that under oath in a court of law?”

“No need for that,” Ryder hastily interjected as a bead of sweat rolled from his hairline down the side of his face. He ignored the legal head’s attempt to shush him, continuing, “I have heard rumors, however, from more than one source that Mr Kinney has, er, had sex with clients in order to secure their accounts, so I do believe there is some truth to Mr Thomas’ claims.”

Beanstalk finally succeeded in getting a word in edgewise, cautioning, “Surely, you can understand that such egregious behavior is damaging to the firm.”

“No, I can’t see that,” Melanie replied firmly. “A rumor is just that - a rumor - with no legal foundation whatsoever.”

“Look,” the man placated, “we’ll be terminating Thomas for the same behavior - everything fair and square.”

“Hmm, except for the fact that Mr Kinney didn’t do anything wrong,” the bulldyke corrected. “Let’s cut to the chase, gentlemen,” she suggested, “we all know you don’t actually have sufficient grounds to fire my client. So, unless you’re prepared to offer an advantageous severance package to Mr Kinney, there won’t be a deal. Instead, we’ll be taking you to court - and we’ll win both a large settlement for my client and reinstatement to his current position.”

“Just a moment,” the legal head muttered, before huddling together with his boss and his legal assistant, the two lawyers flipping frantically through various documents.

Melanie grinned at Brian and unobtrusively patted his hand, mouthing, “It’s in the bag.”

For the first time since he’d entered Ryder’s office, Brian was truly enjoying himself as he watched his soon-to-be former boss and his legal beagles scrambling to contain the situation.

“Here’s our offer for immediate termination, effective today,” Beanpole declared, sliding a paper with the carefully calculated sum across the table to Brian. “We’ll even disseminate the information that this was a mutual decision. Mr Kinney can, of course, retain his keys to the building and the office until he has cleared out his personal effects. In return, Mr Kinney will agree not to enter into competition with this agency for a period of one year.”

“No,” Brian flatly refused, unable to remain quiet any longer. There was no way he’d agree not to compete with Ryder for a year; if he let that much time lapse first, it would be more difficult to establish himself. The advertising world was cutthroat, and - no matter how talented he might be - he’d be all too easily forgotten. The adman was hardly able to hide his shock, however - both at the generous, six-figure sum, and that Ryder wanted him out so quickly - although he supposed it could work to his advantage. He’d be able to woo potential clients without worrying about a potential conflict of interest since he’d no longer be working for Ryder.

Melanie placed a calming hand on his arm, concurring, “As Mr Kinney said, that’s out of the question. The non-compete clause is no longer in effect if employment is terminated. That standard clause is clearly spelled out in Mr Kinney’s contract.”

The legal beanpole cleared his throat uneasily. “I’m afraid we’ve mislaid our signed copy of Mr Kinney’s contract.”

Melanie stared at the man in amazement. “My, you do have shoddy record-keeping,” she drily noted. “I suggest you rectify that. It so happens, however, that I’ve made photocopies of the notarized contract from my client’s file. You’ll find everything in order, I believe,” she remarked as she handed copies to both the beanstalk and Ryder.

Brian watched in satisfaction as Ryder blanched, his boss hissing at his legal head, “Can’t you do something about this?” while the legal beagle shook his head in resignation.

Ryder directed a direful gaze at Brian and backtracked. “Fine. Kinney, you can keep your job,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

The conniving weasel, the brunet thought to himself. The sod was obviously scared stiff at the idea of having Brian as competition.

“In that case,” Melanie inserted, “we’ll be taking this agency to court for defamation of Mr Kinney’s character.”

Brian thought she was bluffing, maybe, but he knew Ryder wouldn’t take the chance.

And, indeed, Ryder sagged back in his chair in defeat, nodding at his lawyer to proceed.

“We withdraw our request for the one-year NCC,” Ryder’s lawyer acceded, “with a corresponding reduction to the severance package.” He wrote down another figure and slid the piece paper over to Brian.

“No,” Brian interjected. “The original amount you offered or no deal.”

“But…” Ryder spluttered as Brian looked at him coldly. He couldn’t believe he’d once trusted this chickenshit weasel of a man and his all but guaranteed partnership.

Ten minutes later, Brian and Melanie waltzed into his former office, the signed agreement in hand.

“I can’t believe we got that much,” an elated Melanie effused. “Then again, considering the dolts didn’t even have complete records, they’re lucky we didn’t demand more.”

“It went well, I take it?” Cynthia inquired, leaping up from behind her desk.

“Better than expected,” the suddenly exhausted ad exec confirmed. “My employment is terminated, effective today.”

“But your accounts…” the shocked blonde replied.

“They’re Ryder’s problem to figure out,” Brian shrugged. “I get to keep my keys until I’ve cleared out my personal belongings. I don’t want to wait, though. Would you like to help me over the holiday weekend?”

“You bet your ass, I would.” Cynthia replied. “I have the obligatory family thing tomorrow, and I’ll be hitting the stores early on Black Friday, but I’m free after that. Monday, I’ll be handing in my resignation; there’s no way I’m working for someone else, not even for one day.”

“Listen, Brian, I’ve got to get back to my office,” Melanie interrupted. “You’ll be there this evening to take over babysitting duties from Justin?”

“Shit, I’d forgotten all about that,” Brian muttered, before hastily reassuring the dyke, “I’ll be there, I promise.”

As Melanie walked out of his now former office, he called after her, “Thanks.”

The lawyer turned, walking backward a few steps as she queried, “Oh my god, did that hurt?”

“A bit,” Brian chuckled, before stating sincerely, “Good work, counsellor.”

With a wave of her hand, Melanie disappeared in the direction of the stairs.

Brian offered, “Shall we go get a drink and discuss the future of our new ad agency, Cynthia?”

“Fuck, yes,” the blonde eagerly replied. “There’s a new wine bar over on French Street, not far from Liberty Avenue, that’s supposed to stock imports from around the world.”

 

Justin rang the doorbell of the Muncher Mansion at exactly five o’clock, clutching the plastic bag from the toy shop he had visited on the way here. He had bought Gus a box of Tinker Toys, which the little tyke would really only be able to use when he was a little older, but Justin hadn’t been able to help himself when he had seen they were selling the retro edition he used to own as a kid.

The door opened, a blond head full of hair curlers peeking out. “Justin?” Lindsay asked in surprise. “Is it five already?”

The teenager glanced at his watch to make sure. “Um, yeah?” he confirmed. “On the dot.”

The flustered lesbian blinked at him. “Damn it,” she whispered, ushering Justin inside. “Our reservation is for half five. We’re so going to be late. It’s just that Gus has been really difficult and-”

“Linds?” Melanie’s voice interrupted from the first floor. “Was that Justin?”

“Yes,” Lindsay shouted back.

“Thank fucking god, Gus is chewing on my blouse. Are you _sure_ he’s Brian’s kid?” the brunette questioned, coming down the stairs. She was clad only in a bra and a pair of loose capri trousers, Gus on her hip. The little boy had some sort of blue silk material clenched in his fist, shoving it in his slobbery mouth.

Lindsay shrugged with an amused smile. “We need to move, Mel, or we’re going to be late.”

The lawyer handed her son over to Justin, patting the baby’s head. “We still have ten minutes before we have to leave,” she assured her partner, wresting her blouse out of Gus’ grip.

Justin smiled at the little tyke. “Hello, Gus. Are you ready to spend some time with Uncle Justin?”

The brunet boy gave him a gummy grin, letting go of the hostage material. “Jushun!” he greeted the blond. “Mwah!”

Pulling the curlers free of her hair, Lindsay explained, “That means he wants a kiss.”

Justin chuckled, pecking the boy’s wet mouth quickly, making an exaggerated ‘mwah’ sound. “Like this, Gus-man?”

“Mwah, mwah! Babp,” the nine-month-old agreed.

Justin took Gus into the living room, settling on the girls’ sofa, while Lindsay and Mel continued to get ready. As someone who took five minutes on average to get ready - three of those minutes being reserved for teeth brushing - he was pretty intrigued by the complex ritual of women getting ready. He had never really seen his mother do this, because she was a proper WASP and always got ready alone in her bedroom and was out the door on time, so he enjoyed the show as if he were watching a National Geographic documentary.

Twelve minutes after he rang the doorbell, the lesbians were finally ready. “His bottles are in the fridge,” Lindsay reminded him, slipping on some high heels to complement her navy blue suede dress - a fashion statement Justin wasn’t sure what to think about. “There are some bananas in there too; just mash one in a bowl and feed it to him. If he doesn’t want that, you can grate an apple and a carrot, mix them together, and spritz the whole thing with some lemon.”

The blond teenager nodded, thinking to himself that there was no way he was going to fix Gus something different if the boy was fussy about the banana - he would damned well eat whatever Justin gave him.

“You have my number if anything happens,” Lindsay continued, “and the number for Gus’ doctor is on the fridge.”

“I’ve got it,” Justin assured her.

Putting on her coat, Melanie filled in, “Brian is supposed to come at seven but, knowing him, he’ll probably appear later than that. He’s only ever on time if it’s his job - like today, he insisted on knocking on Ryder’s office at ten o’clock _exactly_.”

The blond frowned. Why was Melanie anywhere near Brian’s meeting with Ryder? Did something happen? He didn’t get to ask any questions as the girls hurriedly gave Gus some kisses and then rushed out, so Justin was left to wonder. He vaguely remembered Brian mentioning a coworker that was causing trouble for him about a week ago - was that perhaps somehow related?

He was brought out of his musings by a wet hand slapping against his face and a high-pitched giggle. “Bwah bop,” Gus babbled.

Justin quirked a smile. “Is that right, buddy?”

“Ba!” the little tyke agreed.

Looking around, the blond’s gaze fell upon some colourful plastic blocks that were strewn across the living room floor. “How about we play with these blocks, huh?” he suggested.

Gus pumped his arms up and down in excitement as if he actually understood what Justin was saying - and maybe he did - he was already past the age when babies started to comprehend meaning.

“Blocks?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows and waiting to see how Gus would respond.

“Ya! Bah!” Gus called out enthusiastically - and damned if that wasn’t an actual verbal agreement.

The blond carried the little boy over to the blocks, noting absentmindedly that the wooden set he used to play with as a toddler looked much nicer that the plasticky monstrosities Gus had, and set him down on the floor. Sitting right next to him, he began stacking the blocks atop each other to build a tower, commenting on the process as he went along, “This blue one is the base, see? Then we put on the yellow one, then these two red ones, and then finish it off with a green one on top.”

Gus leaned closer with a look of concentration on his face and then knocked the tower over with a few wild swipes of his arm. “Bah!” he cried out victoriously. “Ooh, bah!”

“Nice one!” Justin praised the boy. “Now do you think you can also build one?”

Gus swiped at the blocks again, sending them in multiple directions. “Bah!”

Resigning himself to an evening of building towers that got immediately sent to the ground again, Justin took hold of a yellow block. “Now we’ll start with a yellow one, Gus, look.”

“Ooh,” the boy said, eyes intent on Justin’s newest architecture.

“I’m going to set this red one a little off-centre, ok? And I’ll do the same with this green one,” the blond continued his narration, hoping that if nothing else, Gus might learn some colours. “Now, look! It’s The Leaning Tower of Pisa!”

“Sa!” Gus agreed, once again sending the blocks flying.

“You’re right, Gus,” Justin assented in a snooty tone, attempting to sound like one of the ladies that used to pinch his cheeks at the country club when he was little. “Such an example of poor engineering shouldn’t really exist. Now how about we try to build a pyramid?”

The two boys continued building and destroying other famous pieces of architecture, with Justin commenting the process and Gus babbling and cooing along the way. It was nearing six when the brunet tyke decided he was bored and started whining.

“Do you want to play something else then?” Justin offered, “Maybe make some race tracks? Or colour?”

“Bap wah! Jushun baba ayayayaya,” Gus demanded, an angry frown on his baby face and arms waving. “Bop,” he concluded.

“Ok, Gus, how about I warm you up some milk. Would you like that?” Justin responded, standing up and quickly grabbing a bottle out of the fridge to show the boy.

Upon seeing the baby bottle, Gus got so excited he overbalanced in his attempts to reach it. “Babababa mmmm,” he babbled, wiggling on his stomach.

Happy he’d figured out what the tyke wanted, Justin went back in the kitchen, boiled a kettle of water, and then popped the bottle into a bowl, pouring the water over it. When he thought it was warm enough, he tested the temperature on the inside of his wrist and, deeming it adequate, carried the bottle back to Gus.

The brunet boy grabbed after the milk right away, so Justin decided to just give it to him and use the opportunity to clean up the room a little in the meantime. He put away a lot of blocks, puzzle pieces, stuffed toys, and toy cars and was finally left with a clear view of the munchers’ living room carpet. He also put away the new box of Tinker Toys, hoping the girls might not realise it was there for a while - he didn’t really want to be questioned about how he’d spent his hard-earned money on toys instead of saving it for something more important, like college.

“Jushun, ta da baba,” Gus informed him, waving his now-empty milk bottle at Justin.

The blond grinned, patting the boy’s head. “Good lad,” he praised him. “Was it good?”

The baby burped loudly in response.

Justin took the bottle away from him, rinsing it out quickly, and standing it upside down on a dish drainer. Then, returning to the living room, he noticed a bucket full of wooden pegs that the lesbians used to hang clothes to dry. “What do you say we build us some race car track with these pegs, Gus?” Justin offered. He supposed a game like that was still a little too advanced for the tyke, but a challenge never hurt anyone. Besides, he remembered building peg-tracks as a kid and thought they were a lot of fun - if nothing else, Gus would have something new to destroy.

An hour and three different race tracks later, Gus was hungry again, and Justin decided to make him some of the banana mush Lindsay had mentioned.

“Bamama!” Gus called out from his high chair as Justin put the food in front of him.

“That’s right, Gus,” Justin agreed. “A banana!”

“Bamama!” the boy insisted.

Justin just grinned and began feeding him the sloppy thing. Gus hummed his way through most of it, dancing rhythmically in his chair, clearly pleased by the evening’s menu. “Mmmm,” he hmmed, swallowing another mouthful.

“Good, was it?” the blond asked when the plate was almost finished and Gus didn’t want to eat anymore.

Gus slapped a pudgy hand down on his plate, grinning proudly at Justin as the banana mush splashed. “Bamama,” he declared, offering a bit of the beige substance to the blond in his tiny little fist.

The teenager gave him a proud smile. “What good manners,” he praised the tyke, patting his head softly, while trying to avoid touching any banana-contaminated surfaces. “Thank you, but I have already eaten,” he begged off, thinking that he would probably just revisit his lunch if he did accept Gus’ offer.

“Jushun,” the little boy agreed, nodding his head once exaggeratedly, before concluding, “Bwah mam bob!”

Justin hmmed, a serious expression on his face. “You are right, Gus, we should definitely clean this up.”

“Bah!”

The blond grinned. “So we’re in agreement then,” he exclaimed, standing up and reaching for Gus’ plate. He made the mistake of resting his other hand against the table to support himself as he leaned over the table, though, his hand slipping on the mush-covered surface and landing Justin’s whole upper body right in the mess.

“Ugh,” he grunted in disgust, righting himself back up to the giggles of the little cheeky monkey. “This is no laughing matter, Gus,” he reprimanded the boy halfheartedly. “I look like I rolled in vomit.”

“Va va bah!” Gus agreed.

“Ok,” the blond sighed. “I’m gonna go wash up, while you keep sitting in your highchair like a good little boy, ok? Then we’ll clean this all up and give you a bath.”

The brunet boy hummed, “Bahmhmhm, Jushun,” slapping his hand against his plate again. Justin was just about to comment on the yellowy splatters suddenly adorning the kitchen floor, when the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” he whispered in panic. Surely that wasn’t Brian already? “Do you think that’s daddy?” he asked Gus, hurriedly wiping his hands off with a kitchen cloth.

“Dada, shh, shh,” the nipper told him as the bell rang again insistently.

“Oh, no! Shit, don’t say that, Gus,” Justin berated him, completely flapped. “That’s a bad word.”

As he ran to the kitchen to see who was at the door, Gus cried out after him, “Shh, shh, Jushun!”

Little brat. He was definitely Brian’s son; there was no question about that.

 

Brian rang the doorbell again, huffing in frustration. It was cold as fuck outside, and the blond twink was taking his sweetass time getting to the door. Thank fuck for the three bottles of wine he had shared with Cynthia after work; otherwise, he’d probably freeze to death by the time Justin deigned to open up.

“Brian!” the blond greeted him, out of breath and looking like he had been chewed up and then spat back out. Literally, going by the beige goop that adorned his shirt.

“It’s good you don’t give a flying fuck about fashion,” the brunet disparaged the teen’s ensemble. Who else would pair boring, greyish cargos with a plain white tee anyway?

Justin huffed. “Nice to see you too,” he snarked.

“When did I say it was _nice_ to see you?” he questioned, placing one hand against the blond’s chest and pushing him out of the way. Brian didn’t want any of that goop to contaminate his Zegna and Armani attire.

“That was sarcasm, you big… ugh!” Justin called after him in frustration.

“I’m here to see Gus, not you,” Brian called over his shoulder. “Where is my Sonnyboy anyhow?” He beelined for the kitchen when he heard, “Shh Jush ssh bah,” from that direction as well as little fists thumping against what he assumed to be the tray of the tyke’s highchair.

He heard the blond follow him, still babbling, “I wouldn’t really go in there, Brian, I haven’t had time to-”

Brian arrived in the kitchen, eyes widening at the mess.

“-clean it up.”

“What the fuck?” the stunned brunet asked. The same gunk that decorated the blond’s shirt was everywhere - on Gus’ face and hands, in his hair, on the floor around his highchair, on the table in front of the tyke. He squinted at the refrigerator, yards away from Gus, where it appeared that yet another splotch had landed.

“Yeah,” Justin grumbled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck - unknowingly spreading the mush across his skin. “He was a bit enthusiastic about the banana?”

“Are you asking me?” Brian quipped, quirking one eyebrow at the abashed teen. It annoyed him that the blond looked kind of sexy in spite of his dishevelment.

“Fuck off, Brian,” Justin snapped, scowling. “Just go and give him a bath, while I clean this up,” he ordered the other man, ignoring Gus’ eager cries of “Fah! Favavava!”

“Fine,” the brunet snapped back. Brian quickly removed his overcoat, folding it over a chair after checking to make sure none of the banana mush had flown in that direction. Then he wiped off Gus’s hands with a damp paper towel, before throwing a dishcloth over his shoulder to protect his shirt. He finally settled Gus on his hip, the little boy getting more and more excited and shrill in his greetings. “Just don’t take long,” he shot at the blond as he left the kitchen.

Ascending the creaky wooden stairs leading to the first floor, Brian grumbled to himself quietly. How could the irresponsible little brat let Gus get into such a state? Did he leave him unsupervised? That would be just like him, so maybe he should be thanking god there was no one around to steal his son…

Entering the bathroom, Brian sighed. What was it about the blond always doing the opposite of what he was supposed to do? Slapping gunk all over his son instead of feeding him. Accepting the go-go dancing job instead of doing as Brian had told him. Leaving the loft unlocked instead of setting the alarm…

Gus interrupted his musings with a soft mumble of, “Dada?” which he then followed with, “Babamampf Bap!”

“Yep,” Brian confirmed, wincing a little when one chubby hand tangled in his hair and pulled. “That muppet needs to learn to be a responsible adult and to heed good advice when he hears it.”

He shook his head a little to clear it as he removed Gus’ clothes, settling him into the shallowly filled tub of warm water. Maybe necking that third bottle with Cynthia hadn’t been such a good idea, he mused as he bathed the tyke.

“Dada!” his son gurgled, happily splashing the water about. “Jush gah!”

What had the teen done to get his son so overexcited? the brunet wondered, glancing down at his dress shirt, which was now damp in several places. Fuck, he hoped the bubble bath wouldn’t stain it irreparably.

“Bababababa,” Gus singsonged, wiggling on his bum and grinning gummily at his father.

Brian couldn’t help grinning back at Gus. The little boy was so good-natured. The brunet was glad he’d finally given in to his blonde friend’s pleas to donate sperm; his son had three loving parents, when Brian hadn’t even had one, not until Michael had introduced him to Debbie and Vic anyroad. And they could hardly parent an unfortunate fourteen-year-old full-time; it likely would’ve made things much worse for Brian if they’d tried.

“Dada bah dada,” Gus babbled some more, chasing away Brian’s dark thoughts as he lifted his son out of the tub, pulling out the plug so the bathwater would drain.

The brunet toweled Gus off, wrapped him in a fresh diaper, and dressed the boy in his Mickey Mouse pajamas, muttering, “Fuck, I’m going to have to get you some better duds. Does no one except your dada have any fashion sense?”

The brunet carried his son back downstairs, not really expecting that Justin would have done much in the way of cleaning up in the short time it had taken him to bathe Gus.

“You finished in here?” he called out, hesitantly entering the kitchen. He was surprised to encounter the room spotlessly clean and Justin half undressed. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, glaring at the other man’s pale back.

“What does it look like?” Justin turned his head from where he was rinsing out his t-shirt at the kitchen sink. “I had to take this off so I could remove the banana mush from my skin. I want to get the stains out before they’re set in the fabric and impossible to remove.”

“So you decided to walk around naked?” the brunet huffed, eyeing the soft-looking expanse of bared skin Justin was flaunting in front of him. Fucking blond.

“Naked?” the teen had the effrontery to giggle. “Since when is this your idea of naked?”

Gritting his teeth together, Brian bounced his son on his hip. “If you’re trying to accomplish something by walking around like that, you’ll be disappointed,” he warned Justin.

The blond tilted his head to the right, contemplatively eyeing Brian. “I’ve accomplished getting clean, which is all I had in mind. What were _you_ expecting?”

“Whatever, just get dressed and you can go home. I think I’ve got it from here,” Brian dismissed the teen, avoiding looking at the bared torso in front of him. Little tease, he thought.

“With pleasure,” Justin declared, rolling his eyes. “Who’d want to be around a fucking bear like you?” He took a plastic bag from under the sink, dumped his wet shirt inside, and pulled on his jacket, all without looking at Brian. Then he walked over, ruffled Gus’ hair affectionately, placed a kiss on his brow, and promised, “I’ll see you soon, Gussy.”

“Fah! Fah, Jushun!” the boy returned the sentiment.

Brian made a mental note to cut curse words out of his vocabulary whenever he was around the tyke - his ‘fah’ was beginning to sound suspiciously like ‘fuck’. It was just like the blond not to consider that.

The teen then headed out the front door, closing it behind himself with a firm thunk.

Brian stared at the closed door in consternation. “Fuck,” he muttered, immediately forgetting his new resolution. The whole situation felt like he and Justin had gotten divorced and were now sharing custody of their son - handing him over every other week. It was a really bizarre feeling, and the brunet hated it. He had no idea how he could fix things though… The teen was clearly just too young and irresponsible to actually behave like an adult.

Gus patted his face softly. “Babp,” he murmured soothingly as if he could understand Brian’s feelings. “Baba da?”

Brian smiled at his son. “Thanks, Gus. You’re just what I need to get over my rotten day - it was my last day, actually, working for that Ryder pillock.” The brunet figured he could unburden himself to his son, secure in the knowledge that the lad wouldn’t repeat it to anyone.

“Ooh! Bah!” the tyke chimed in, pointing at something on the floor.

“Huh, what’s this?” Brian asked, squatting down with the boy in his arms and examining the wooden peg track. “Were you showing Justin how to race cars?”

“Bamama!” Gus announced grandly, stretching out a hand toward the pegs.

“You’re right. Ryder has a teeny-weeny banana,” Brian stated seriously. “In fact, he’s a dickless wonder. Firing an ad exec as brilliant as your dada. What a moron.”

“Bah! Ha! Bap!” the little boy gushed.

The older brunet looked around for some Hot Wheels cars he could race along the track, but he didn’t see any. “Vroom, vroom!” he imitated the throaty purr of an engine, Gus crowing in delight, as Brian ran his fingers across the pegs.

“Dada! Mwah! Ya. Nah.” the boy chattered.

Brian smiled as he remembered the green Chevy Corvette he’d spent hours racing across the floor of his bedroom as a child. “We’ll have to get a Stingray for your track, Gus,” he decided.

“Ya!” the tyke waved his arms about vigorously.

“Don’t tell your mums,” Brian confided as he played with his son, “but your Mama Melanie was absolutely brilliant in that meeting with Ryder. I don’t think I would have kept my cool without the bulldyke by my side - and she wangled far more out of that chickenshit tightwad than I ever expected. Cynthia, my assistant who’s gonna help me set up my new agency,” Brian divulged, “nearly peed her pants when I told her how Ryder’s legal honcho admitted they’d lost their signed copy of my contract.”

“Nah! Bah!” the little boy yelled.

“Yes, it was fucking hilarious,” Brian confirmed, guffawing as he recalled the expression on Ryder’s face. He still couldn’t believe the unprofessionalism.

As Brian talked about his plans for the future, Gus started to nod off since it was now past his eight o’clock bedtime. Brian carried his son upstairs, tucked him into his crib, and bussed him on one rosy cheek. “Night, Gus,” he murmured softly. “Sleep tight.”

While he waited for the munchers to get home, Brian opened his computer, jotting down notes about everything he needed to get done, including making up a name for his fledgling agency. A banner suddenly popped up, indicating he’d received a new email. When Brian clicked on the message, he was informed that his old mattress had finally sold. He chuckled as he imagined regaling his friends with the tale of the donation he had planned - and how he’d raised the funds - during the Thanksgiving feast the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve included quite a bit of Gus in this chapter, so we thought we’d alter our prize for the 100th review on AO3. You can select any two characters and tell us what you’d like to happen in a scene between them.
> 
> Stipulations: The characters must have already been introduced in this story (duh), and if it’s a sex scene, it must be safe and consensual. In addition, it can't have a major impact on the story, e.g., no getting the boys together sooner than would otherwise happen, no matter how much you want it to happen right now, you cheeky monkeys ;)
> 
> Just a reminder: We created a FanDoc for our readers. You can find it at https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a humongous chapter - rather like Thanksgiving feast everyone is about to enjoy. You may want to give yourself time to digest one section before moving on to the next :)

“Rise and shine, Sunshine!” a tenor voice called, knuckles rapping hard against wood.

“Huh? Wha-?” The teen jerked upright in the bed, eyes still scrunched shut, totally disorientated.

“Oh, Vic, isn’t he cute?” a higher-pitched voice inquired.

A chuckle greeted that question. “Looks like a tufted blond owl, Sis. He should make a good playmate for our Harley.”

Justin slowly opened his eyes, blinking blearily at the siblings. “You’re a regular comedy act,” he mumbled. He glanced blearily to his left, where an old clock, some kind of precursor to today’s digital ones, rested on the nightstand. As he watched, the numbers flipped over so that the hand on the Captain Astro sticker that had been affixed to the front pointed at 6:00.

“Thank fuck,” he grunted, “enough time for a shower before I catch the bus.” His addled brain was a bit unclear as to why Deb and Vic were hovering in his doorway, but he supposed he should be grateful they’d awakened him so he could make it to school on time. He then thought, wait a min-

“It’s Thanksgiving, Kiddo,” the redhead reminded him, stepping inside the room and laughing at Justin’s dismayed expression.

Justin groaned, flopping down on his back and shutting his eyes. “It’s a holiday. Why the flaming heck are you waking me up so early?”

“You’re the one who said he wanted to be involved in every aspect of the preparations for today’s feast,” Deb chided. “We’re gonna have to get that fucking giant bird in the oven soon.”

“But we won’t eat till somewhere between one and two o’clock,” Justin protested. “It’s not gonna take seven hours to cook the fucker. My mum never needed more than three hours to cook a turkey.”

“Jesus, it sounds like she didn’t cook anything larger than a peahen,” Debbie jested.

“Probably no more than ten pounds,” Vic concurred.

“Must’ve been nowt but a poult, or maybe a jenny,” the redhead cackled.

“Or vastly underfed,” Vic interjected.

“What’re ‘poults’ and ‘jennies’?” the bewildered, half-awake teen asked. “Some special breed of turkey?” He hated it when someone stumped him with a new word that he couldn’t immediately figure out; fortunately, that rarely happened.

“A poult is a baby turkey,” Vic explained, “and a jenny is a young female turkey.” The older man tugged at the coverlet as he continued, “The male equivalent is a jake-”

“Holy fuck!” Debbie interrupted. “You _are_ well endowed, Sunshine.”

Justin, who’d been resting his eyes for another minute, opened them in a hurry, flushing as he looked down the exposed, nude length of his body - stopping where _Bob_ was nestled between his thighs. “Fuck!” he shrieked at a much higher pitch than Deb had just used.

He tried to snatch the covers from Vic at the same moment the man attempted to hurl them back over the teen, sending the bedding sailing over the other side of the bed. Justin, who was now crimson from head to toe, screamed, “Fuck!” again, doubling over in an effort to give himself a little privacy.

“Relax, Kiddo, you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” Deb teased, kindly averting her eyes as she turned around and walked to the door of the teen’s room.

“Except for the size,” Vic muttered, as he followed his sister. “I haven’t seen the like very often…”

“Brian must be missing that,” Deb chuckled. “The boy’s such a size queen.” She shouted over her shoulder, “Grab a quick shower and come join us in the kitchen, okay, Sunshine?”

“Ehm,” Justin squeaked, so embarrassed he couldn’t emit another sound.

Twelve minutes later, the teen had showered and dressed, but he was still so mortified by what had occurred that he didn’t know where to look as he entered the kitchen.

“Kiddo,” Vic immediately tendered an apology, “I’m really sorry about that. I never considered that you might be sleeping in the buff.”

“I’m sorry too,” Debbie commented. “We didn’t mean to embarrass you so badly, Sunshine.”

“Hmm,” Justin mumbled.

“But I always say, ‘if you’ve got it, flaunt it’,” Debbie gently teased. “And you’ve definitely _got it_.”

The blond hmmed again, unable to smile just yet.

“You know, Sis, maybe we should replace that Captain Astro bedding,” Vic suggested. “Michael was all of what - eleven years old - when you purchased it for him?”

Debbie chuckled, “I think he campaigned for that bedding - especially the coverlet - for six months before I broke down and got it for his eleventh birthday.”

“It’s not really suited to an older teenager, especially one as mature as this lad,” Vic remarked, slinging an arm around Justin’s shoulders.

The blond did smile now. He couldn’t help wondering if Brian had learned from Vic - and adapted to suit himself - this ‘actions rather than words’ type of apology. Warmth coursed through Justin’s body as he recalled Brian’s apology for that ruined dinner… Fuck, that had been the best memory ever to which to test out _Bob_.

“Huh, I hadn’t even thought about that.” Debbie reflected, bringing the teen’s wandering attention back to her. “Michael has always seemed content to keep everything the same. But, you’re right, Vic,” she acknowledged. “In fact, we should think about remodeling the entire room, not just changing out the bedding.”

Justin barely refrained from punching his fist in the air and shouting, Yes! He was heartily sick of seeing Captain Astro wherever he looked - the bedding, the wallpaper, the curtains, the clothing which took up most of the space in the chest of drawers, the stickers glued to every available surface...

Vic smiled at the now beaming teen, jesting, “Besides, _your_ proportions are more heroic than Astro’s.”

As a brief laugh escaped him, Justin decided there was no changing Deb and Vic’s ribald humor.

“That’s it,” Debbie encouraged. “Laugh with us. Give as good as you get. ”

“ _Hellooo, Briaaan_ ,” Harley chirped at that moment, ringing first one, then another of the bells in his cage, making all them of them chuckle.

“Okay, okay,” the teen protested, laughing some more. “I’ve got the message.”

“Then get your behind over here,” Deb commanded, “so I can show you how to prepare a big bird to go in the oven.”

The redhead turned to her brother and ordered, “Bring that monster over here.”

“Your wish is my command,” Vic replied with an extravagant bow, hefting up the turkey from the other counter - where it was resting on a large platter - staggering slightly as he brought it over to Deb, and thumping it down in front of her.

“Holy shit!” the teen exclaimed, testing the weight of the bird for himself by lifting up the ends of the platter, “This thing weighs a ton. Wouldn’t it make sense to cook two smaller birds? I’d think the meat would cook more evenly and taste better.”

“Ragazzo,” Debbie chided, patting him on the cheek, “only amateurs who don’t have a clue how to prepare a turkey think that. The flavour depends on the seasoning and how the bird is cooked; it has nothing to do with the size.”

“Sis has that old General Electric oven well-trained,” Vic quipped. “It’ll roast this fucking turkey to perfection.”

“It should know what to do after all these years,” Deb agreed, turning the oven on to three hundred twenty five degrees fahrenheit to preheat. “Slice up a coupla red onions, a few carrots, and two ribs of celery for me, wouldya, Sunshine?”

Justin quickly performed the task, delivering the cut-up veggies in a bowl, blinking his eyes rapidly.

“No need to cry, Kiddo,” Vic teased as he pared apples at the other end of the counter.

“Fucking onions,” the teen griped, swiping at his eyes with his arm. “This always happens.”

“Sis usually sticks me with slicing the onions,” the older man noted, grinning as he added, “It’s good to have you here, Kid.”

“Victor Grassi,” Deb protested, swatting his arse with a dish towel, “you make it sound like I’ve never cut up an onion myself.”

“I didn’t think you had,” Vic jested. “Whoa, keep that lethal weapon away from me,” he begged, rubbing his posterior as if he’d actually been hurt, when Debbie raised the dish towel again.

“What’s next?” Justin inquired, laughing at the siblings’ shenanigans.

“There’s no need to get overly fancy with roasting the bird,” Deb informed him, pulling out a large roasting pan from the drawer beneath the oven. “We just want to release the flavour. So, strew those veggies across the bottom of this pan, and then set that big buzzard on top. I’ve already rinsed the bird, patted it dry, and removed the bag of gizzards and the neck, so there’s no need for you to do that.”

“Good,” Deb praised when the blond had done as instructed. She then wrapped one of Justin’s hands around a turkey leg. “Tilt that fucker up on its end and generously season the inside with this mix.”

“What is it?” the young man asked, before turning his head to the side, releasing a mighty, “Achoo!” after he began shaking the contents into the bird’s cavity.

“As you’ve just discovered, there’s some pepper,” Debbie chuckled. “Mainly, it’s just salt and pepper.”

“Okay,” Justin replied, wiping his nose on his shirt and assuring the laughing redhead, “Don’t worry, I’ll change my tee later.”

“Good idea,” Vic interjected. “A snotty shirt can be a real turn-off.”

Deb recalled the flushed teen’s attention by instructing, “Now, watch what I do. We don’t want the wingtips to get singed, so it’s important to tuck the wings under - like this.”

“You’re a quick learner,” the redhead lauded, when Justin folded the other wing under in one go.

“Eh, you’re a good teacher,” the teen replied. “You make learning fun, Debs.”

“Okay, let’s sauté some sage and rosemary leaves in butter,” the motherly woman directed, smiling at her protégé.

Justin followed her instructions, quickly searing the herbs and placing them inside the bird with tongs.

“That turkey’s gonna stink good,” Vic jested as he arranged the apple slices on a pie plate, before covering them with a crumbly flour and brown sugar mixture.

“Fuck, I can almost taste that apple crisp,” the teen moaned. “Do we get a break for breakfast?”

“We’re almost done,” Debbie informed him. “Then we can inhale some coffee and have a bite to eat. Just tie that big fucker’s legs together with this butcher string, and then you can practice your painting skills by basting this bird with the melted herb butter.”

A few more sneezes later - Justin discovered he had to season the outside of the turkey too - and the bird was ready to go in the oven shortly after seven o’clock.

“Shove the pan on in there,” Debbie ordered, the teen grunting from the weight of the pan as he complied. “We’ll check on it around twelve o’clock - stab it in the thigh with the meat thermometer to check the internal temperature.”

“It’ll almost certainly need another half hour to finish cooking,” Vic commented, “and then another half hour to cool down before it’ll be ready to carve.”

“Then we can devour it,” the redhead declared. “Along with the ham Em is cooking and, of course, all the side dishes everyone is contributing.”

Justin’s stomach let out a hungry rumble, and he ran a hand across his chin in case any drool had escaped.

“Time to feed the beast,” Vic chuckled.

“Yes, please,” Justin pleaded.

“You up to chopping some more veggies to earn your breakfast, Kiddo?” the older man queried, his eyes twinkling as he took over Deb’s station at the cooker, placing sausage links in a pan and frying them.

“Don’t tell me,” the blond groaned. “You want more onion. Couldn’t you have asked for that when I sliced the first two?”

“Nope. Far too simple,” Vic chuckled.

“You know,” Justin reflected as he took another red onion from the bowl and held it up to make sure that was all Vic wanted, waiting for the man’s nod before resuming, “I’ve heard that keeping onions in the refrigerator slows down reactions and changes the chemistry inside the bulb. Not that doing that ever helped much at my mum’s house,” he shrugged.

“Supposedly, chopping the buggers underwater has the same effect,” Debbie tossed out, “but-”

Vic interrupted, “They kinda frowned on that down at the Y - said it interfered with their underwater basket-weaving class - so Sis had to quit using their pool.”

Justin and Deb both burst out laughing, the redhead finally gasping out, “Yeah, it just resulted in in wet, soggy onion anyroad.”

“Set that over there,” Vic requested, when Justin tried to hand him the bowl with the chopped onion. “Since you’ve stopped bawling, how about adding some ribs of celery and carrots?”

“I’m naught but slave labor,” the teen quipped, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

“You’ve finally cottoned on to why we wanted you to move in,” Deb cackled, beating eggs together with milk, salt, and pepper at the other counter.

Once he’d finished slicing, Justin followed Vic’s instructions, using another skillet to heat a bit of butter and cook the vegetables until they were tender. He then spooned the veggies into a bowl, melted some more butter in the pan, and moved aside so Deb could pour in some of the egg mixture. After the eggy underside had cooked evenly, he spread veggies across half the fried egg, while Vic added cut-up sausage. A couple minutes later, the redhead reached between the men to sprinkle shredded cheese on top.

“That’s it,” Vic judged approvingly as the teen used a spatula to fold one half of the egg mixture over. “Ecco!” he announced moments later as he began preparing another eggy creation, “You just made the perfect omelet.”

On cue, Justin’s stomach rumbled. “Sit down and eat,” Debbie urged, pouring more of the egg mixture into the pan the teen had been using. “We’ll be with you shortly.”

“Fuck, that was good,” the young man moaned appreciatively half an hour later, as he polished off his second omelet, washing it down with a third cup of coffee.

“I don’t think that’ll hold you till the turkey feast,” Vic joshed, placing a pumpkin custard in front of the teen.

“I thought custard was supposed to be served warm.” Justin looked at the cold confection in confusion.

“It’s good both ways. Try one cold now and then hot later,” Debbie suggested, digging into her own pumpkin treat.

The trio of chefs conferred about when they’d prepare the remainder of the dishes and desserts they were providing for the feast: the pumpkin bisque they’d serve first; Vic’s famous triple-threat stuffing; cranberry sauce; the apple pies, crisps, and applesauce; and the dessert breads - zucchini, cranberry, and gingerbread.

“We’ve gotta have a couple of healthy options for Brian,” the teen insisted. He wasn’t sure why he was being so nice, considering what a shit Brian had been to him the night before, but no matter how rudely the brunet behaved, he couldn’t stop caring about and looking out for him. “Otherwise,” he continued, “he’ll have conniptions about his arteries clogging and new fat cells forming just from looking at all the carbohydrate-laden food. How about a harvest succotash? This sweet potato and cauliflower mash sounds good too,” he decided as he perused recipes from Debbie’s box.

“You want to take care of those?” the redhead inquired.

“Sure,” Justin grinned, “as long as I can ask one of you questions if I get stuck.”

“Well… okay, we’ll let the slave labor ask questions,” Vic teased.

“Oh, we can’t forget the gravy,” Debbie decreed, slapping one hand down on the tabletop for emphasis. “We’ll cook butter and onion, whisk in flour, add chicken broth and brandy, cook until thickened, and then add some of the drippings that have collected in the bottom of the roasting pan.”

“Make sure to pour in plenty of brandy,” Vic prompted. “A drunken bird always tastes best.”

“An old sot like you should know,” the redhead riposted.

“I do,” Vic confirmed with a smug smile. “And I’m proud of it.”

Four and a half hours later, almost everything was ready, both ovens going, dishes simmering away or just staying warm on the range, even the Crockpot called into use for the cranberry sauce.

Vic and Justin dropped extra leaves into the small, rectangular dining table, expanding it to seat twelve people. The older man then took the first turn at showering and changing his clothes, while Deb and Justin set the table and kept an eye on the items on the stove.

“That felt good,” Justin remarked as he came back downstairs, having been the last one to clean himself off. “Who’d’ve thought I’d need a second shower today?”

“You did well at decorating your clothes, your face, and your hair,” Vic laughed.

“Maybe you should consider getting a wine-colored streak in your hair,” Debbie proposed seriously. “Those cranberries formed an interesting contrast to your blond locks.”

“Fuck, no!” the horrified teen protested, utterly disturbed by the idea.

“Gotcha!” Deb crowed, emitting a belly laugh.

As soon as they’d tested the the turkey’s internal temperature - Debbie pronouncing it ready when the thermometer registered one hundred sixty five degrees - and removed it from the oven, the doorbell chimed.

“Answer that, wouldya, Sunshine?” Debbie requested. “The bird needs to cool for thirty minutes. We’ll add some of the drippings to the gravy in just a bit.” A satisfied expression on her face as she looked around the kitchen, she declared, “I think we’ve got everything else under control.”

Justin opened the door to discover Emmett on the doorstep. The flamboyant man was wearing an orange knit cap pulled low over his ears, a purple scarf wrapped around his neck, and a bright blue peacoat, holding a large electric roaster oven in his orange-mittened hands. “Here, Baby, take this,” he requested, handing the roaster off to Justin and trotting back to the taxi waiting at the curb.

“Jesus Christ,” Justin opined, carrying the pan into the kitchen, “this must be one heckuva a porker.”

“Put that over here,” Vic suggested, clearing a space on the kitchen table and plugging the cord into the outlet. “You’d better go help Em, Sunshine. He’s like Deb - cooks for the army _and_ the navy.”

“And you don’t?” Justin quirked an eyebrow at the older man as he headed to the door again.

“Of course, I do.” Vic replied with a broad grin. “Otherwise, Nonna and Nonno would roll over in their graves and revoke my Italian-American card.”

As the blond jogged over to the cab, from which his friend was indeed unloading a fuckton of food, he heard the driver mutter, “Considering how much all that weighs, I should charge you fare for a second passenger - even if the company’s rates are calculated on a base fee and mileage - plus time, when applicable.”

Emmett grinned at the swarthy, muscled taxi driver, revealing the gap between his teeth, and sassily drawled, “Or you could just take it out in trade in Babylon’s backroom this weekend.”

“Hmm,” the driver perused Em’s lanky frame before winking at the southerner, “grant me a dance beforehand and you’re on. I’ve seen you shaking your tail feathers - you’re fucking talented.”

“Why thank you, kind sir,” the queen flirted. “Just sashay on up to me tomorrow or Saturday, and we’ll see how well we tango.”

The bloke accepted what looked like his regular fare and a hefty tip from Emmett, touched two fingers to his forehead in salute, and drove off.

“Did you call it quits with Dijon?” Justin inquired, accepting a gigantic, stainless steel chafing dish, from which enticing aromas wafted.

“Of course not,” Em huffed as he picked up a rectangular pan encased in a thermal cover. “But we’re not married, so both of us are free to get our ashes hauled. All we’ve really had so far is an extended one-night stand.”

“It looked to me like you wanted more,” the blond observed as they carted the food into the house.

“Well,” the tall queen admitted, setting the pan on sideboard next to the dining room table and divesting himself of his outerwear, “I would, but there won’t be much chance of that till Dijon’s reenlistment is up in two years. There’s no point pining after what I can’t have, although we have been sexting.”

“So that’s what the sergeant meant when he said you’d be pen pals,” Justin chuckled.

“Baby, surely you didn’t think we’d rely on snail mail,” Em gasped. “How would I get my daily quotient of sexy dick pics?”

“That would be a problem,” Justin acknowledged. “What-”

He was cut off by Emmett yelping, “Shit! I must have forgotten the power cords at home.”

The teen walked back outside as the man stamped his foot in aggravation, pulling out his cell phone to call someone. “Uh, Em, is this what you’re looking for?” he asked moments later, holding out a plastic bag with the logo for _The Big Q_ emblazoned in green on on a bilious yellow background.

“Thank fuck,” the queen muttered, dramatically waving his cell at Justin. “Michael’s not picking up. I thought I was going to have to slog back to our apartment through the snow.”

“What new concoctions are you testing on us this year?” Debbie shouted from the kitchen.

“Testing?” Justin wondered, plugging in the chafing dish after his friend handed him the appropriate cord.

“You lot are my guinea pigs,” Em revealed. “I like to experiment with at least one new recipe each Thanksgiving.”

“You don’t give it a trial run first?” the astounded teen prompted. “My mum always claimed that was a surefire recipe for disaster - dried out turkey, burnt pie crusts-”

Emmett airily dismissed Justin’s concerns. “Baby, like my Aunt Lula always said - as long as you ply your guests with enough alcohol, they’ll never notice any deficiencies in the food. Not that my culinary attempts are ever anything less than fabulous, of course.”

“Not one of your dishes has ever flopped?” Justin inquired disbelievingly.

“Hmm,” the taller man mused, “it didn’t go so well when I gave Michael directions on making a pumpkin pie. That was over the phone, mind you. It never dawned on me that he would put in the same amount of powdered milk - without reconstituting it - as condensed milk…”

As the blond stared at him in horrified fascination, Emmett’s lips twitched. “That puffed-up pie looked like it was about to give birth.”

“Oh, _that_ pie-” Debbie guffawed from the kitchen doorway, “it was such a fucking disaster. When was it my boy made that for Thanksgiving?”

“Five years ago?” Vic queried. “If I recall correctly, Michael wanted to impress me when I visited from New York. It looked like Mount Vesuvius about to blow.”

Justin’s cheeks pinkened as he recollected his trial run with his _Battery Operated Brian_ \- how he’d recalled teasing his former lover that he looked like Mt Vesuvius about to blow...

“Baby, do share whatever has brought that delectable flush to your cheeks,” Em prompted.

“ _Hellooo Briaaan_ ,” Harley chirped right then, causing Deb to cackle.

“There’s your answer,” Vic announced, a broad grin on his face.

“Spill, Harley,” the tall queen invited, running over and placing an ear against the birdcage, which resulted in the budgie nibbling at the cartilage. “That tickles!” Emmet exclaimed, backpedalling away. “You’re right, though, Harley. I’ll have to winkle the details out of the lad.”

Unsure whether that was a threat or a promise, Justin decided to stay mum as long as possible.

“Now, Emmett, tell us what you made this year, so I can get back to the cooker,” Deb reminded the flamboyant man of her earlier question.

“Well, in here you’ll find sorghum-glazed sweet potatoes, a southern speciality I haven’t made in years,” Em replied, tapping one side of the chafing apparatus. “The newbie is scalloped hasselback potatoes with cheddar.” He rapped his knuckles against the other side of the metal chafing pan. “It takes a while to prepare, but it’d be pretty fucking hard to mess it up, so I doubt I’ll give anyone food poisoning…” Winking he concluded, “...this year, anyhow.”

“This must be your famous Chipotle buttermilk cornbread.” Vic patted the flat, oblong pan approvingly.

“Fuck, I’m getting hungry,” the teen muttered, lightly massaging his growling stomach.

“Not long to go now, Honey,” the motherly redhead commented after glancing at the clock on the stove, which read 1:07. “Do you need another custard to tide you over?”

Emmett nudged Justin out of the way, claiming, “If he doesn’t, I most certainly do. Cooking is hard work.”

Vic rubbed his hands together, his eyebrows dancing up and down. “You hear that, Sis? The entertainment tonight should be extra-special, with all Sunshine’s _hard_ work.”

Justin rolled his eyes but quipped, “Should I leave my door ajar?”

“That would be fucking considerate,” Debbie joked, beaming at the teen.

“Maybe I should sack out on your couch-” Emmett started to suggest, just as the doorbell rang.

“Must be the lesbians,” the redhead remarked. “Somewhere they got the idea that being on time means coming early.”

“Ew,” Em’s face scrunched up. “Never mention ‘dykes’ and ‘coming’ in the same sentence.”

“Gross,” the teen concurred, heading to the door.

“Jushun! Jushun!” Gus crowed, stretching out his arms as soon as the blond had opened the door.

“Would you mind holding him?” Lindsay asked, handing over her son before Justin could answer. “Ever since we told him he’d see you later, he’s been chanting your name. We couldn’t get ready fast enough.”

A delighted smile on his face, the teen declared, “I missed you too buddy.”

He carried the tyke over to Deb, who planted a wet one on his cheek and greeted him, “How’s my Gussy?”

“Gah! Mama!” the tyke burbled, tangling his chubby fingers in the redhead’s wig and pulling it askew.

“Debs! I think he’s calling you ‘grandmama’,” Justin gasped.

“What?” Lindsay called out, dashing over with a salad bowl in her hands, Melanie right behind her with a covered casserole.

“Gah! Mama!” the little one obligingly repeated before reversing it. “Mama! Gah!”

“Let me fix your hair,” Lindsay offered.

“Who cares?” Debbie waved her off, despite her now lopsided wig nearly covering one eye. “Gus just called me ‘grandma’!”

“Don’t worry. He uses every new word again and again.” Melanie assured the proud grandmother. “You’ll soon grow tired of it,” she joked.

“Never,” Deb vouched. “I could never get tired of hearing Gussy call me grandma.”

“Allergies,” the teen mumbled to no one in particular as he surreptitiously wiped at one eye. He felt better when he noticed Em doing the same.

The bell rang again, and Vic joshed, “Are we expecting any other lesbians?”

After passing Gus back to Linds, Justin walked over to see who’d arrived.

“Really? That would be great,” Melanie interjected. “This group needs more estrogen.”

“Fuck, no,” Vic retorted. “We’re already outnumbered.” When both dykes raised their eyebrows, he joshed, “Sis’ estrogen outperforms the testosterone of any three men.”

“Victor Grassi!” Deb reached out and whacked him on the back of the head.

“See,” Vic proclaimed, staggering as if the redhead had dealt a mighty blow.

“Um,” someone cleared their throat uncertainly.

“Dr Dave!” Debbie gushed, embracing the man exuberantly, practically lifting him off the floor as she gave him a lipsticky kiss. Looking behind him, she asked in surprise, “Where’s Michael?”

“Uh, he decided to stay at his apartment last night,” the chiropractor disclosed, hastily tacking on, “I brought wine from France and a spicy acorn squash with feta cheese - from both of us.”

Deb glanced at Emmett, probably wondering why Michael hadn’t helped ferry the food from their apartment, but the queen just shrugged at her.

“Wine from France,” Vic mused. “Are you training Michael to be a wine connoisseur?”

David coughed, flushing. “Uh, working on it,” he deflected. “So far, Michael prefers beer.”

A thumping at the door sent Justin, who’d toted in the doc’s casserole as well as a cardboard wine carrier, back toward the entrance to the house. “Ted,” he greeted the accountant with a welcoming smile, “come on in.”

“I’m not late, am I?” Ted’s brow furrowed. “I thought I’d allowed plenty of time, even with the heavy snow.”

“Nope, you’re right on time - a few minutes early even,” Justin responded. “Can I take something for you?” he inquired, noticing the man had quite a stack in his arms.

“Please,” the older man replied. “Sorry about knocking with my heel, but I didn’t have a free hand. My usual parking karma deserted me,” he jested. “I had to park half a block away.”

“No wonder you didn’t want to make more than one trip from your car,” the teen laughed, relieving Ted of a large basket covered in a thermal warmer and leaving the man holding a casserole-shaped dish in an insulated bag. With so many casseroles, he wondered how they’d tell them apart, but he supposed the cooks would lay claim to their own creations.

“Put the smaller dishes on the table,” Deb ordered, “and find space for everything else on the sideboard."

“You mean there’s room for something besides this steel monstrosity?” Ted drily remarked. “What’s in here anyway?” he asked, his fingers reaching for the handle.

“Hands off, Teddy,” Em demanded. “I don’t want my casseroles to get cold.”

“Party pooper,” Ted pouted.

“You won’t say that once you have a taste,” Emmett claimed, raising one hand to his lips and kissing the fingertips, before spreading his fingers outward.

“Just a tiny peek?” Ted wheedled, employing blatant flattery, “You’re such a fabulous chef, Em.”

Sensing the queen was about to give in, Justin interposed, “Dinner will be ready shortly, Ted. Why don’t you put your dishes on the table, and we can all rave about each other’s masterpieces once we start eating?”

Emmett nodded at Justin in thanks, quickly snatching his hand away from the chafing dish. “You almost got away with that, Teddy,” he chided.

“It was worth a try,” the man shrugged good-naturedly.

“Find a seat, everybody,” Vic recommended at 1:52, shooing the girls out of the kitchen. “Just leave the chair at the head of the table - that’s the seat nearest the kitchen - and the one to the left free.”

“Is it okay if Gus’ high chair goes at the foot of the table?” Linds asked. “If we need to get up to take care of him, that’ll make it easier.”

“Sure,” Vic responded. “Why don’t you girls sit on one side of him, and I’ll take the chair opposite you.”

Emmett squealed, “Dibs on the seat next to Vic,” with Ted quietly claiming the space next to his friend.

The doorbell went off again, and Justin hurried to answer, suddenly speechless when he discovered Brian at the door.

“I’m expected, aren’t I?” Brian sardonically inquired when Justin simply stared at him.

“Uh, yeah, of course.” the nonplussed teen belatedly responded, opening the door wider. “It’s just, like, you’re almost early.”

“Early?” the brunet arched an eyebrow at the stammering teen. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fashionably late, as always.”

“Briaaan,” a voice cried out from behind him, causing the adman to wince and wonder how he could’ve miscalculated so badly that he’d arrived before Michael. Maybe his fucking expensive Bvlgari Octo wristwatch wasn’t keeping time accurately… Anyway, he really didn’t feel like dealing with his clingy friend, who’d likely whinge on about how Brian hadn’t been spending enough time with him.

Sure enough, one beat later, the shorter man protested, “We usually see each other every day,” eagerly proposing, “Let’s sit next to each other.” He pushed past the teen, taking no notice of him, claiming, “It’s been forever since we saw each other.”

“Four days does not constitute ‘forever’,” Brian snarked, relieved to discover Dr Dave at the dining table. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for getting Michael and the good doctor back together; now he wouldn’t be subjected to Mikey’s inane chatter. “You should sit with your boyfriend,” he advised, nudging his friend toward the other end of the table.

Ignoring both Michael’s beseeching puppy-dog eyes and the furtive look he cast toward the chiropractor, Brian turned toward Justin, the bottles in the bags he was toting merrily clanking. “Where should I-” he began, halting when he saw Justin open the door again.

He scowled, thinking that all these latecomers were messing with his status as the last - and most anticipated person - at any event. His eyes narrowed on the bulky figure, stunned to recognize the portly detective. Surely the copper didn’t plan to interrogate Justin about the robbery on Thanksgiving Day? Although Brian was still pissed at the teen for being so irresponsible as to leave his loft unlocked, he didn’t believe the brat really knew anything about the burglary.

Belatedly, he realized the detective was carrying a bouquet of flowers and what looked like a couple six-packs of beer. What the fuck? Who’d invited the police to Thanksgiving at Debs? He hurriedly glanced toward the sidewalk, nearly sagging in relief when he didn’t see the man’s partner, the stone-faced, monosyllabic Detective Wen.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he heard Horvath greet the teen. “This is much better than vegging in front of the TV this afternoon.”

What the fuck? Brian fumed again. Not only was the teen irresponsible, he was also inconsiderate. The muppet had to know that most of them weren’t comfortable around the police; there’d been too much unfair treatment from the fuzz. The blond might’ve done the right thing by reporting the vandalism of his locker to the police, but getting all buddy-buddy with one of them was something else entirely. In any case, he should have had more sense than to invite one into Debbie’s home.

The brunet was startled out of his musings when a hand was thrust out toward him, a gravelly voice remarking, “Good to see you, Mr Kinney.”

“Detective,” Brian responded curtly, not about to say ‘likewise’, not when he didn’t feel that way at all. “Are those flowers for me?” he mocked, trying to find his equilibrium with the policeman. “You shouldn’t have.”

The detective chuckled, quipping, “You don’t look much like the vivacious Mrs Novotny to me.”

Brian set down one of the bags he was holding, so he could shake the proffered hand, glaring and muttering, “I should hope not.”

“Detective,” a voice screeched, rescuing Brian from the need to formulate a better retort, “Sunshine told me you were here.”

Jesus, the blond was like a jack-in-the-box, Brian reflected, as the teen popped out from behind Debbie.

“Um, these are for you,” the suddenly bashful copper mumbled, holding out the posies.

The gobsmacked redhead placed one palm against her chest, declaring, “Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”

The adman could practically see the gerbils scurrying about inside the teen’s head. Ten to one the kid would be buying flowers for Deb on a regular basis - if Horvath didn’t beat him to it, that is. The detective looked awfully smug, as if he’d just won the jackpot. Jesus, what was it about a few soon-to-wilt flowers that turned women and twinks into utter nitwits? Thank fuck that would never happen to Brian Kinney.

“Oh, tiger lillies,” the bedazzled redhead breathed out, pulling the tissue back from the bouquet. “How’d you know they’re my favourite?”

“They just reminded me of you,” the copper confessed. “Vibrant and full of life.”

“Oh, let’s see,” Emmett interjected, peering over Deb’s shoulder. “You sly thing,” he patted her shoulder. “You never told us you have a beau.”

“Uh, I- it’s new,” the usually unflappable woman spluttered.

“Here, Deb, why don’t we put those in water,” Justin suggested, popping up again with a water-filled vase in his hand. “They’d make the perfect centerpiece for the table,” he ventured, beaming at Debbie and then the detective.

As they filtered into the dining area, Vic emerged from the kitchen, pulling Brian aside. “You’ve met the detective before, right?”

“Couldn’t avoid him, what with him and his partner investigating the burglary,” Brian grumbled.

“He _is_ doing a good turn by Justin,” Vic allowed, “giving Jerkins a talking-to about the torched locker and the bullying, so I want him to feel at ease in Deb’s and my home. Would you mind sitting next to him?”

“Whatever,” the adman ungraciously conceded, “but with Wen for a partner, I doubt any of us will discombobulate him.”

“Maybe not,” Vic ruefully admitted, “but having him here is disconcerting _me_.”

“Why don’t we have a nip of this so we can deal with the detective and the rest of Thanksgiving hullabaloo?” Brian suggested, cracking open one of the paper bags so the older man could see the bottle of Beam Black Label.

“Can I join you?” Ted requested. “I could use some hair of the dog myself.”

“If you’re still feeling the effects of the last bottle we necked, that might not be such a good idea,” Brian cautioned as he unloaded the bottles of Valpolicella wine and Roundabout IPA he’d purchased.

“That was three day ago,” the exasperated accountant rolled his eyes. “It’s Michael alternatively pouting at David and giving the detective the stink eye that’s the problem.”

“Fuck,” Brian muttered when Vic glanced at him meaningfully, “I’d better get in there. Stash this somewhere so we can enjoy it later, wouldya?” What the hell had he been thinking, he wondered, agreeing to make the policeman feel comfortable in their midst?

“What’re you doing here?” Michael rudely inquired of Horvath as Brian sat down between the copper and Lindsay, while Debbie, Justin, and Vic carried in steaming bows of soup, placing them in front of everyone.

“Michael Charles Novotny,” Debbie reprimanded her son, slapping him on the back of the head.

It must’ve been a pretty good whack, the adman judged, from the way Michael cried, “Ouch, Ma! What was that for?”

“Detective Carl Horvath is a guest in this house,” Debbie explained, “and I raised you to be polite to visitors.”

“Pleased to properly meet you,” the policeman offered with equanimity, smiling at the scowling Michael. “Your mom’s quite the gal.”

“I’m David Cameron,” the chiropractor intervened when Michael simply glowered at the policeman. “It’s good to meet the fellow Debbie’s dating.”

“Uh, no, we aren’t actually dating,” the flustered redhead denied, almost dumping the soup into Dr Dave’s lap. “Detective Horvath has struck up a friendship with Sunshine is all.”

“Looks like I’m not the only one he’s friends with,” Justin murmured, cheekily grinning at his benefactress as he set a bowl of soup in front of Brian, his fingers grazing the brunet’s.

It took all Brian’s wherewithal to appear indifferent to the teen’s touch. Fuck, but he needed to get back to tricking, he mused. It couldn’t be that difficult, right? Just like riding a bike…

Carl’s flirtatious, “I’d be honored to take you on a date,” recalled Brian to the present. He almost shuddered, more from thinking about the fucking trick who’d assaulted him a handful of days earlier than from the idea of hetero dating rituals.

Spoons were poised in midair as the others awaited Debbie’s response with bated breath.

“Ehm, I don’t know,” the redhead dithered. “I haven’t been on a date since the last century.”

“Me neither,” Carl shrugged, grinning at Deb’s sassy comeback. “Maybe we could go bowling,” he suggested hopefully.

“Big balls are always a plus,” Em murmured from the other end of the table.

While Debbie mulled over her answer, Vic proposed, “Maybe we should have a competition, Sis. You know, cops versus queers.”

“Sounds like fun,” Justin commented as he served more bowls of soup, making sure everyone had gotten a portion before sitting down himself.

“Bowling’s for heteros,” Brian grunted irritably, thinking about how Jack loved the so-called sport. “Count me out.”

“I wouldn’t mind showing my moves at the bowling alley,” Em announced.

“You’d certainly distract our opponents,” Ted fondly stated.

“I used to be pretty good with a bowling ball in college,” Lindsay reminisced.

“Ma! You’re too old!” Michael abruptly blurted out.

“Too old for what?” Justin queried drily. “Bowling? I’ve never heard of an age limit.”

“No, you idiot,” Michael fulminated. “Too old for dating.”

“Michael Charles Novotny!” Debbie reiterated in a loud voice, smacking her son on the head again. “I am _not_ too old to date. I may have gone prematurely grey, but I’m not even too old to have another child.”

While Michael gaped in open-mouthed shock at his mom, a smidgen of the pumpkin soup dribbling down his chin, Brian exchanged a horrified look with Ted. Another Michael was too much to contemplate.

“Ew,” Emmett complained. “No alluding to hetero sex while I’m eating.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you,” Melanie revealed, smirking, “but as distasteful as the notion may be, we’re all the result of het sex.”

“Please,” the queen dramatically begged, covering his ears with his hands, “no more.”

“We probably couldn’t have the match until the new year,” Carl tactfully interceded, “since homicide is always swamped with cases during the holidays. We could still think about who we’d want on our teams though. My partner would be my first pick. No bowling ball would dare visit the gutter when she wields it.”

That cemented it as far as Brian was concerned. He didn’t want to go anywhere near that match, if it ever came to fruition.

“Oh, I bet Detective Wen is really good.” Justin enthused.

“She probably is, son,” Horvath nodded. “I don’t know if I could talk her into participating, though, other than to glare the ball into submission.”

“Fuck, we won’t stand a chance,” Em groaned. “Bowling isn’t my forte - I’m afraid I specialize in gutter balls.”

“Your mind is certainly in the gutter,” Ted quipped. “But so is mine.”

“Even if our team is the underdog, that doesn’t mean we can’t win,” the redhead encouraged everyone. “There’s time to hone our skills too, if we won’t compete for five or six weeks.”

The group pondered the merits of a bowling match while they slurped their soup, Debbie apparently unaware that she hadn’t actually agreed to a date. As he observed Horvath, who was smirking like a Cheshire cat, Brian was certain that the detective hadn’t forgotten. To his credit, the policeman didn’t seem bothered by having most of the family tag along on his date.

Scarfing down the bisque, Justin mused about when he could practice bowling. He definitely wanted to participate, although he didn’t think he’d bowled since he was Molly’s age.

The teen suddenly realized that the detective hadn’t met everyone. Setting down his spoon, he apologized, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce you.”

“No worries,” Horvath replied, smiling at the teen.

“I’m sure you lot heard that we have a special guest, Detective Carl Horvath,” the blond commented loudly, inclining his head toward the copper.

“So, as far as the ones you haven’t met,” Justin gestured toward the foot of the table. “The nipper down there is Gus - Brian, Lindsay, and Melanie’s son. This is Lindsay Peterson, the one sitting beside Brian, and Melanie Marcus is next to her.”

The lesbians murmured, “Detective,” while Gus banged on his tray.

“Next to Gus is Vic Grassi, Deb’s brother,” the teen continued. “He and Debbie live here together.” He wasn’t sure if the copper could hear him clearly over Michael’s muttering and Gus’ excited babbling and banging, so he resolved to repeat the names later on.

“Thanks for welcoming me into your home,” the policeman offered a polite greeting, while Vic nodded in acknowledgement.

“This is Ted Schmidt, and next to him is Emmett Honeycutt,” Justin finished. “You know everyone else, I think.”

Ted nodded at Horvath, while Em sent him an excited little wave.

“You’re good friends with Brian, aren’t you?” Carl offhandedly commented to Michael.

“He’s my best friend,” Michael proudly proclaimed.

“It’s hard to tell whether Michael spends more time at our apartment or at the loft,” Emmett laughed, “given how he’s attached to Brian’s di-, uh, hip.” He paused, sending the chiropractor a contrite look, before amending, “Of course, all that will change now that he’s together with Dr Dave.”

“What? Why would that change-” Michael objected.

“Fuck, this is so good,” Lindsay moaned, cutting Michael off.

Murmurs of agreement rose from around the table.

“It’s so easy to make that it’s almost embarrassing,” Vic bantered. “Even Brian could prepare this.”

The appalled brunet refuted, “I’d never make something so full of fat.”

Carl chuckled, glancing at Brian’s empty bowl, “That didn’t stop you from eating every last drop though, did it?”

With a huff, Brian turned to Lindsay to engage her in conversation but the blonde merely spluttered, laughing, “The detective is right, Brian.”

Justin was still giggling at the brunet having been caught out, when Debbie leaned over and whispered, “I want you to carry the turkey to the table, Kiddo. You’ve earned the honor.”

The blond beamed at his surrogate mother, nodding in eager acquiescence, before he stood up and began clearing away the empty soup bowls.

“Let me give you a hand,” Deb offered, beginning to rise from her chair.

“Relax,” Justin urged, “you’ve been cooking up a storm all day.”

After placing the bowls and soup spoons in the dishwasher, the teen transported a couple of the side dishes they’d been keeping warm in the kitchen, the diners oohing and aahing over each new delivery.

Once all the sides - as well as an extra cutting board and platters to hold the carved turkey meat - had been ferried to the table, Justin arranged a sharp knife and a two-pronged meat fork alongside the turkey. The bird had been transferred to a wooden platter, where it rested on a kitchen towel to keep it from wobbling. He lifted the board carefully, so the humongous bird wouldn’t slide off as he transported it, and shuffled toward the dining area.

“Holy shit, Justin!” Melanie exclaimed as he approached the table. “I can’t even see you; that turkey’s so big.”

“It must weigh more than you do, son,” Carl teased, his eyes twinkling.

“Maybe,” the blond huffed out, relieved to set the platter down next to Vic, “but _my_ thighs are more muscular.”

Emmett leered, offering, “Shall I test your temperature?”

Before Justin could issue a retort, Gus stretched out a hand, querying, “Bah. Bah. Bamama?” frustratedly banging his fists against his tray when he couldn’t reach the bird.

“Turkey,” Justin enunciated slowly. “Not banana.” Looking at the munchers, he suggested, “If we cut up some turkey really fine, could Gus have a bite or two? I’d hate for the little guy to miss out completely on the main course.”

“A bit of leg or thigh meat should mash up easily, since dark meat is usually moister than the breast meat,” Vic recommended.

“That should be okay,” Lindsay decided. “He digested the bangers you diced up for him at the diner without any problem, Justin.”

“And he’s almost two weeks older now,” Melanie inserted, beaming proudly at her son. “Talking more and eating more than just baby food.”

“He may be a miniature version of Brian,” Em remarked, “but he’s already more loquacious than his dad. Doesn’t sound like he’ll restrict himself to the same high-protein diet either…”

“Are you on some special diet?” Carl asked, turning to look at the man seated next to him, blushing when everyone guffawed.

“He’s queer, detective,” Debbie chuckled. “Think-”

“Oh!” the policeman cut her off as he got the reference, his face now a bright red.

Feeling bad for the mortified detective, Justin loudly stated, “If you’ll carve the bird, Vic, then everyone can dig in.”

“Where do you think you’re going, Sunshine?” the older man asked as the teen headed back to his seat. “There’s no better time than the present to learn how to cut up a turkey.”

Justin smiled broadly as he returned to Vic’s side. His dad had always claimed he was too young to be trusted with such an important task, so he’d never done this before.

“The first thing we want to do is expose the wishbone,” Vic explained, slicing down on one side of the bone and then directing the blond to repeat the action on the other side. “Okay, tug hard to pull it out,” he instructed.

Leaning down to whisper directly into his ear, Justin suggested, “Shall I give this to Debbie and Carl?”

Vic winked at his turkey-carving assistant. “Put it on my plate and you can do that after we’ve finished cutting up this bird.”

“Next, I’ll slice through the skin that connects the leg to the breast,” Vic demonstrated, “pull the leg and thigh away from the body, and then cut through the hip joint. Your turn,” he declared after removing the limb.

“Don’t worry, Kiddo,” Debbie called from the other end of the table. “Vic’s an expert at carving a fucking bird.”

“Ouch!” Ted winced. “At least let the cock finish fucking first. After all, it’s his last hurrah.”

The blond giggled, his nerves dissipating when he saw Brian’s hands twitch, as if he wanted to cover his crotch. Copying Vic’s motions flawlessly, he soon added the leg to the one already on the spare cutting board.

Using the smaller board, Vic cut through the joint between the hip and the thigh, gesturing for Justin to do the same.

“Oops,” Justin gasped, embarrassed when the leg plunked onto the tablecloth.

“You’re doing great,” his mentor encouraged. “Just put the leg back on the board.”

“Heck, I already decorated the tablecloth with my soup,” Melanie mumbled, “which looks a lot worse than a grease spot.”

“Stains add character,” Debbie cackled.

“Now you know why Sis and I are such characters,” Vic punned, eliciting a round of groans.

After they’d each carved the bones out of the thighs and cut the meat into pieces, placing it and the legs on two serving plates, Vic showed the teen how to remove one half of the breast from the breastbone.

His tongue peeking out between his teeth as he concentrated, Justin had to slice a few more times than Vic, but he eventually freed the other half.

“Bravo!” shouted Debbie, whilst Em whistled, “Rock that cock!”

“Anyone can carve a turkey,” Michael pouted.

“Michael,” Debbie hissed, “as I recall, you refused to give it a try despite all the times your uncle offered to teach you. So, you shouldn’t disparage Sunshine’s efforts.”

“But, Ma!” Michael protested, “Everyone’s acting like that twinkie is so cool when, really, he’d be a homeless, two-bit lowlife without you.”

“You’re both part of this family as far as I can tell,” Horvath intervened, “so wouldn’t it make sense to try to get along?”

From the corner of his eye, Justin saw Debbie give the detective a grateful nod, Michael subsiding reluctantly as his boyfriend whispered something in his ear. Considering it wasn’t as virulent as some of Michael’s other accusations, the teen was startled to see Brian glowering at the shorter man - as if he strongly disagreed with his childhood friend.

On the spare cutting board, he and Vic quickly sliced the breasts against the grain, progressing from tip to tip, adding the slices to the thigh and leg meat.

Finally, the older man demonstrated how to pull the wing away from the turkey, cutting through the joint. “There,” Vic declared in satisfaction as Justin removed and placed the second wing on the other platter, “you lot can squabble over who gets the wings.”

“The wings belong to me and Brian,” Michael immediately piped up.

“Too much fat,” Brian rebutted. “I haven’t eaten a wing since I was a teen.”

“Unless you’ve gotten into your chronic,” Ted jested, chuckling when he earned a glare but no retort from his friend.

“How would you know-” Michael sneered.

Debbie shrieked, “Aw, that’s so thoughtful, Honey,” cutting her son off. While Ted had been bantering with Brian, Justin had carried one of the platters of turkey down to the other end of the table and had extended the wishbone to the detective, indicating he should offer it to Debbie.

“Whoever ends up with the bigger piece should give the other person a kiss!” Em yelled.

Justin grinned happily, made up that romance was in the air for his surrogate mum and the kindly detective.

Debbie and Carl tugged at opposite ends of the wishbone, the redhead ultimately flourishing the larger bone in the air before standing up and walking over to the copper, flushing slightly as everyone avidly watched. Leaning down, she pecked the detective on the mouth, drawing back and murmuring, “I’ll give you a proper kiss when we don’t have an audience.”

While most of the diners groaned in disappointment, Michael muttered, “Thank fuck. You really don’t want to make a fool out of yourself at your age, mother.”

“Your mum couldn’t possibly do that,” Carl interceded in a mild voice. “I’ve only spoken with her a few times, but I can already tell she’s special.”

“Gag me with a spoon,” Michael sulked.

“Sweetheart,” David interposed, running a soothing hand down his boyfriend’s back, “surely you don’t begrudge your mum finding someone, not when she’s been so supportive of our relationship.”

“I guess not,” Michael allowed, although his countenance was still dark.

Dr Dave, the ad exec ruminated, should just take Michael upstairs and fuck the mad out of him. It wasn’t something Brian had ever wanted to try with his childhood friend, but the doc should enjoy giving it a go.

Shifting in his seat, Brian attempted to relieve the boner that had been distending the fly of his new, dark grey John Varvatos jeans for the past twenty minutes. His hard-on had wilted slightly during the PDA between Deb and Horvath, but had sprung back full force as he’d watched the blond scurry into the kitchen, his deletable ass bouncing up and down in his khaki-coloured cargo pants.

In addition to lusting after Justin, Brian had felt strangely proud of the teen as he’d watched him carry out the turkey and help Vic carve it. Now, he felt a surge of warmth course though his body as the teen came back with a small dish, into which he scooped some finely-diced turkey before adding a dollop of gravy and handing the mixture to the bulldyke to feed to Gus. Ugh, he was behaving like a sentimental lesbian, the brunet chastised himself. Hurriedly turning to the detective, he offered as he stood up, “You want a bottle of Roundabout?”

“I’ll stick with Voodoo,” Horvath responded. “I prefer an aged brew.”

“Fuck, so do I,” Brian agreed. “I forgot to swing by their distribution center earlier this week. Do you mind if I snag one of yours?”

“Help yourself,” the copper invited. “First come, first serve.”

“Take this ham to the table, wouldya?” Emmett requested, intercepting the adman as he beelined toward the drinks on the sideboard.

“Can’t you get Justin to help you, Honeycutt?” Brian grumbled as he caught himself eyeing the blond’s ass yet again.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, _Bri_?” the queen riposted. “Baby’s been working his ass off. He deserves to enjoy the feast too.”

Brian groaned as Justin’s ass was mentioned. He couldn’t get away from that admittedly fine posterior for one second it seemed.

When the brunet returned to the sideboard, reaching toward the beer, Em chided, “Uh-uh. First set this second platter of ham at the other end of the table.”

“Fuck, you’re a demanding bottom,” Brian growled.

“And much less grumpy than the Kinney power top,” Em cheekily replied. “Not getting any?”

“When do I ever have trouble getting action?” Brian snarled, stomping over to the table and plonking the pork down in front of the lesbians.

“No,” he outright refused, bypassing Emmett when he headed to the sideboard for the third time. Whatever the flamboyant man was holding did smell good, but it was bound to be full of fat.

Em rolled his eyes at Brian, but the adman chose not to reprimand him for his juvenile behavior, certain that would end up with him shanghaied into helping out some more.

“No, Baby, you sit down,” the brunet heard the queen tell Justin when the blond rushed over to lend a hand. “I’ve got it under control. You sit down and relax.”

Brian rolled his eyes as he set one of Carl’s beers in front of the copper. Just as he’d suspected, Emmett didn’t really need any assistance. Fucking nelly bottom…

“The ham’s on the table - with Mr Kinney’s oh-so-gracious assistance,” Emmett reported as he carried over two large bowls a few minutes later.

“What’s that?” Melanie asked, pointing at one of the bowls. “It smells fucking good.”

“For that astute observation, you may take the first serving of the sorghum-glazed sweet potatoes,” Emmett announced, passing the bowl to the bulldyke.

“Teddy, help yourself to these hasselback potatoes with cheddar and pass it along.” Em requested, handing the other bowl to the accountant. “I couldn’t resist this new-to-me recipe; after all, potatoes and cheese…”

“...go together like peanut butter and jelly.” Ted chorused along with his friend.

As the two men exchanged grins, Emmett demanded, “Eat up, folks. There’s plenty more in the chafing pans.”

“Cheddar really jazzed up my kale salad with glazed onions,” Lindsay cheerfully asserted. “Cheese is so versatile.”

“Yeah, it’s indiscriminate about ruining an otherwise perfectly acceptable dish,” Brian scoffed, “and glomming fat onto all body types.”

“I sacrificed a night with David so I could help my flatmate prepare the ham and these casseroles,” Michael chimed in, “so - cheese aside - they’re bound to be good.”

“More like you came home whinging last night because you’d got into a fight with David; then you spent the next sixteen hours glued to the computer, bidding on more _collectibles_ on eBay,” Em muttered. “Why was it, again, that you couldn’t help me transport the food over here to your mom’s house?”

“I told you,” Michael huffed, “I was shopping online for Christmas presents.”

“Uh-huh,” Em responded, skeptically arching an eyebrow at his friend.

“Did you get that item you wanted for your mum?” David diplomatically averted a meltdown, evidently no longer upset about whatever had caused their argument.

“Not yet. But I will,” Michael insisted. “There’s another one just listed for sale.”

“You’re a good son,” the redhead declared, “but you shouldn’t spend your hard-earned money from the Big Q on me, Sweetie.”

When Ted exclaimed in delight, “Is that your famous triple-threat stuffing, Vic?” the adman gladly let his attention be diverted from the dysfunctional mother-son relationship. It worked for Michael and Deb, which was all that mattered.

“Yep,” Vic replied, “herb-and-nut, sausage-fennel, and Tex-Mex cornbread. “You want Herb or one of the others?”

“Why did you separate Herb-and-his-nuts from his weiner?” Emmett jested, ladling some of the sausage-fennel stuffing onto his plate.

“That’s something they do down Texas way, right?” joked Ted, taking a helping of the Tex-Mex cornbread stuffing.

“Yep, separating the steers from the bulls,” Em contributed with a dead-serious expression.

Debbie cackled as she passed the dish with the herb-and-nut stuffing to Justin, “You’d better reunite Herb and his nuts with his sausage right quick - so you can lick them all clean.”

Brian thought Horvath looked a little green around the gills when Justin handed him the stuffing, but he gamely took a serving nonetheless.

“Brian, you want some ‘vain-yay’?” Michael waved a bottle at his friend. “David had it shipped from France; it’s really highfalutin stuff.”

“No thanks,” Brian curtly replied, futilely wishing his friend would employ his powers of observation. “I’m drinking beer.”

“Would you like to try the Viognier?” Dr Dave asked Deb, giving the wine varietal the correct pronunciation.

“Sure, although I have to warn you I’m partial to Valpolicella with my turkey,” the redhead amicably assented.

“Your son’s becoming quite the oenophile,” the chiropractor asserted, pouring a small amount into Debbie’s glass for her to taste. “He’ll soon be-”

“Huh?” Michael interrupted. “What’s a ‘peen file’? Is ‘peen’ short for ‘penis’? Why would l want to be a ‘penis file’?”

Jesus. Brian cringed, almost spewing his last draught of beer all over the tablecloth. Mikey should just have the balls to say he didn’t know what the word meant. The adman would bet at least one or two of the other people at the table were equally clueless.

“What’s an ‘een-ah-file’?” Deb asked, puzzled.

As usual, Brian mused, the mother had more balls than the son.

“There’s no ‘p’ sound in ‘oenophile’.” The teenager carefully pronounced the word, before elucidating, “An oenophile is a connoisseur of wines. Good for you, Michael. That’s quite a skill.”

Thank you, Mr Public Service Announcer, Brian chortled to himself, as Horvath let out an ungentlemanly snort, quickly disguising it as a cough.

Snickers resounded from the other end of the table as Michael stared at Justin suspiciously. The blond gave the ‘penis file’ a bland look in return, making it nearly impossible for Brian to suppress a laughing fit.

“Fuck,” Brian kvetched moments later, hungrily eyeing the bacon and green bean bundles Ted had identified as one of his contributions, “couldn’t you have made your usual green bean casserole, Schmidt? At least that was halfway healthy. Now there’s nothing on the table that I can eat.”

“We brought roasted sweet and sour brussel sprouts,” Lindsay recommended. “You can’t get much healthier than that.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go fucking vegan,” the adman complained some more. “The brussel sprouts look like shrivelled balls.”

“No way will I eat those,” Michael predictably jumped on Brian’s bandwagon, turning up his nose at the maligned sprouts.

“Not bad,” Vic opined, spooning up a mouthful.

One side of Brian’s mouth quirked upward at the words of praise he’d long since adopted from the older man. Sighing, he helped himself to the sprouts. “It’s okay,” he acknowledged, “but a little sweet for my taste.”

“Only you would suss out the smidgen of brown sugar in the dish,” Mel commented, shaking her head in wry disbelief.

“There’s far less sugar in a single serving than in one of your cups of coffee,” Lindsay informed him.

“Nope, too much sugar,” Michael adamantly echoed Brian’s assessment, when David tried to pass him the dish.

Brian snorted to himself when his friend immediately ladled a huge helping of the cheesy scalloped potatoes onto his plate. Talk about fattening…

“Try the sweet potato and cauliflower mash,” Debbie recommended when Brian looked askance at the other dishes on the table.

“Is this another muncher concoction?” the tall brunet inquired when Vic passed the dish down the table. “It doesn’t look very appetizing.”

“Nope,” Lindsay demurred. “I have no idea who made it; however, it looks pretty much like standard mashed potatoes to me - just orangey instead of a creamy color.”

“Whateverthefuck,” Brian mumbled, not sure whether he believed his blonde friend. “If you haven’t offed me with your other vegan experiments, I guess this won’t kill me.”

Taking a tentative mouthful, Brian hmmed in amazement. “Not bad. Not bad at all,” he reiterated, scooping more onto his plate.

Debbie patted Justin on the hand, noting, “You should thank Justin. He insisted on a couple of healthy options just for you, Mr Finicky Eater.”

“A couple?” Brian latched onto that piece of information. “What’s the other one?”

“Harvest succotash,” Justin replied, “essentially baked veggies with dashes of olive oil and mustard. It’s even healthier than the mashed taters and cauliflower.”

“Where is it?” Brian looked down the length table, frowning at the notion that someone else was eating a dish intended for him.

“It’s practically under your schnozz,” the teen chuckled, pointing at the veggie dish.

“Fuck,” the brunet muttered as he looked at the colourful vegetable medley that was, indeed, immediately in front of him. “Uh, thanks,” he awkwardly acknowledged Justin’s efforts on his behalf.

The blond simply nodded, before adding a piece of cornbread to his plate and dousing it in gravy.

Emmett took one bite of the turkey and hummed in delight, “Oh, this has to be a Honeysuckle - ever so much better than a Butterball.”

Deb called down the table to Vic, “See, I told you! Honeysuckle _is_ better.”

Ted chimed in, “You been ‘suckling’ balls in the backroom again, Em?”

Justin slyly deadpanned, “It must be a lot of work for turkey farmers to tag their birds as Honeysuckle, Butterball, Perdue, Hormel, and…”

“My Aunt Lula always got so frustrated when my uncles tagged the birds incorrectly,” Em nodded sagely.

“Really?” Michael asked, frowning in consternation. “I didn’t realize those were turkey breeds.”

When everyone laughed uproariously, making Michael flush with embarrassment and anger, David patted him on the hand. “It’s easy to get confused, Honey. Don’t feel bad.”

“You aren’t the first to fall for one of the silly jokes we southerners like to indulge in.” Emmett chuckled. “So there’s no reason for you to be embarrassed, Michael.”

“Justin started it,” Michael mumbled, unappeased. “And the ninny’s from Pittsburgh, not Hazelhurst.”

“I’m sorry,” the blond apologized. “I was just teasing, Michael.”

“Christ,” Brian muttered, “stop acting like hormonal lezzies and talk about something else.”

“Oh,” Emmett bounced in his chair in excitement, “I had a call from Dijon last night.”

“Who?” a bewildered Melanie interjected.

“He’s Em’s ‘pen pal’,” the teen jocularly twitted his friend.

“Oh, pish,” Emmett dismissed Justin’s teasing. “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a sexting pal of your own.”

“He has something better,” Vic joked, “ _Bob_.”

Who the fuck was _Bob_? Brian wondered. In his estimation, it was far too soon for the blond to have moved on to someone else. Wasn’t the kid still mooning after him just a few days ago?

The brunet noticed Justin narrowing his eyes at Emmett and shaking his head when the other man inquisitively mouthed, ‘Bob’ at him. Unfortunately for Brian, the queen took the hint and went on to babble about someone named Heinz... or Colman... or Poupon, so Brian would have to winkle the details about this Bob character out of Vic later on.

“Anyhow,” Em continued, “my hunky marine sergeant told me that he had been considering becoming a flight attendant when his current tour of duty ends, but now he’s decided he’d do better as a bobby. I just know he’d be a great police officer,” the tall queen enthused, gesticulating wildly with his fork. “Fortuitously, there’s a representative of the PPD here this afternoon. Don’t you think he’d be fantastic as your newest recruit, detective?”

“I hate to put a damper on your aspirations for your friend, but I’m in homicide,” Horvath replied, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “I have no sway over who personnel hires; that’s not my department.”

“But a marine who’s seen active duty would have a good chance of being selected, right?” Em inquired.

“Tell you what, if he’s able to spar with my partner and last more than thirty seconds, human resources is sure to hire him,” the copper drawled.

Emmett’s face fell as he surmised, “I bet he’s some enormous, beefy, terminator-like bloke.” His countenance brightened, though, as he asserted, “Dijon’s got lots of muscles, too. Maybe it’s your ‘terminator’ who needs to watch out.”

Brian blenched at the thought of facing Wen in the ring. No way would Sgt Mustard stand a chance, no matter how fit and muscular.

Once he was finally able to stop giggling, Justin gasped, “Detective Horvath’s partner is female. Detective Wen may be petite, but she’s fucking scary. One _look_ from her, and Dijon would be lucky not to piss his pants.”

Glancing to his right, Brian discovered that both he and Horvath were nodding in vehement agreement.

“Oh, is she the terrifying woman you reported the torched locker to?” Emmett asked.

“Yeah, to her and Detective Horvath,” the teen affirmed.

“Wait a minute,” Vic asked, frowning at the copper. “Why are you investigating the burgling of Brian’s loft if you handle homicides?”

“I was in that neighborhood following up leads on another case when the call about the robbery came through from dispatch,” the detective replied easily. “So it made sense for me to swing by and take a statement from Mr Taylor, who’d called 9-1-1.”

“But why’re you still conducting inquiries?” Vic persisted. “Shouldn’t you have turned it over to robbery, or whatever you call the division that processes that type of crime?”

Detective Horvath took a sip of his beer, shrugging. “They’re a bit swamped at the moment,” he alleged, “and, uh, it is standard procedure to finish investigating a case you start.”

“Really?” Vic’s eyebrows shot upward. “Has the homicide rate here in the Pitts decreased so much that you can pick up the slack for the robbery squad?”

Carl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mr Novotny-”

“Grassi,” the other man curtly replied.

“Mr Grassi,” the copper corrected himself, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t inquire any further into my investigation. Maybe it’s the cop in me, but I tend to be suspicious of insistent questioning.”

“Whatever,” Vic muttered. “That’s about what I’d expect from a bobby.”

“I assure you,” Horvath continued, sounding every bit of the cop he was, “that I am doing everything in my power to find the person or persons responsible for the burglary at Mr Kinney’s loft. That’s all you need to know.”

Justin’s head swung back and forth as he listened to the exchange. He hoped Vic wouldn’t alienate the copper, since it would likely put the kibosh on the budding romance between the detective and his surrogate mom.

Fortunately, even though she didn’t look any more satisfied than her brother by Horvath’s response, Debbie returned the discussion to Dijon possibly joining the PPD. “Anyway,” she began loudly, dispelling the awkward atmosphere, “even if Emmett’s beau doesn’t last half a minute with your partner, Carl, I think it would be great to actually have some diversity in the local police force - include some LGBT representation.”

“Do the police have a policy like the military’s ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’?” Justin mused.

“Officially, no,” Horvath disclosed, “but, unofficially, yes. Any queers on the force tend to stay in the closet. It’s in their best interests because of all the harassment they’d face.”

“Maybe Em’s sergeant could change all that,” the redhead suggested, her jaw jutting out. “Providing the PPD would stand behind its token _queer_.”

“It wouldn’t be easy for him,” Horvath reiterated, “but if he applies and is hired, I’ll have his back - as much as I can, depending on where he’s assigned.

The serious moment was broken when a “ _Hellooo, Briaaan,_ ” came from the direction of the kitchen.

“Oh, no,” the dismayed blond declared, jumping up from the table, “I left Harley in the kitchen.”

“Is he gonna bring that dirty bird out here?” Michael squawked.

Brian would have immediately voiced his agreement with his outraged friend, but he was intrigued by the budgie’s greeting.

“Harley II is not _dirty_ ,” his mother vociferously objected. “The cute little guy is a member of this family,” the redhead reminded Michael, reprising their discussion of the previous Sunday.

Insisting the bird was a family member carried the point too far in the adman’s opinion, but he bit his tongue - not wanting his surrogate mother to lay into him too.

“Here you go,” Justin announced as he transported the parakeet into the dining room. “You were missing out on all the fun, weren’t you?”

The budgie rang the bell suspended from his green mirror lantern, and twittered, “ _Hellooo, Briaaan_ ,” again.

“That bird knows who’s important,” the advertising executive bragged, while the teen blushed.

“Did you teach it to say that, Baby?” Emmett feigned insult, “Why didn’t you go with, ‘Hello, Auntie Em’?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Brian snarked, preening along with the budgie. “Harley has good taste.”

No one revealed the source of Harley’s inspiration, although the brunet noted that Vic had a cheeky expression on his face. Something else he’d have to wangle out of the older man...

“Jushun! Mwah!” Gus called out.

“Did you want to say ‘hi’ to Harley?” the blond guessed, bringing the birdcage closer to the tyke and resting it on the end of the table.

“Bah! Bamama!” Gus greeted the blue bird, enthusiastically banging his chubby hands on his tray.

The budgie cocked its head appraisingly at the boy. “Hellooo, Briaaan!” it chirped, inquiringly.

“Holy shit!” Ted laughed. “It recognizes your mini-me, Brian.”

The brunet shrugged but didn’t give a verbal response. The parakeet was probably just cycling through a small repertoire of greetings, and the adman didn’t want to look like an idiot if he credited Harley with too much intelligence.

“Aren’t you a smart fellow,” Emmett cooed, rising from his chair. The queen opened the cage, apparently with the intent of examining the budgie more closely.

Harley, however, took the offered escape route, flying up into the air and circling the table. Swooping down, he snatched a piece of turkey almost as big as himself from Carl’s plate, flapping his wings madly to escape Debbie’s grasping hands.

“Stop him!” Justin yelled, chasing after the budgie. “Human food will make him sick.”

Opening his claws, Harley let go of the piece of turkey, which dropped down into the cranberry sauce on Melanie’s plate.

Gus chortled, “Mama. Bamama. Bah!” as purple-red droplets splattered the lesbian’s ivory blouse.

“You’re right, Gus, it does kind of look like purple banana,” the bulldyke confirmed. She calmly removed the turkey from the cranberry sauce, set it on the edge of her plate, scooped up a spoonful of cranberries, and swallowed it down.

“What?” she asked when the others gaped at her, even Justin pausing in his pursuit of Harley.

“Uh, is that sanitary?” Vic questioned.

“I can tell you haven’t raised an infant,” Mel replied. “I’d never get a bite to eat if I let a little thing like that stop me.”

“That’s true,” Lindsay and Debbie chorused in unison, the redhead sighing, “When I think of all the unsanitary things Michael - and I - ate…”

“Jinx,” the blonde mother giggled. Turning to her partner, she inquired, “Don’t you want to wipe off your shirt?”

“Nah,” the lawyer shook her head. “It’s off to the dry cleaner for this blouse. You were right that I should have worn a different color; ivory invariably attracts stains.”

“Yeah, Gus almost got his grubby hands on it when you were feeding him the turkey puree,” Linds concurred.

“Holy shit!” Ted reiterated at that moment, Harley having just released a load of bird dookie on his head.

“I’m so sorry,” Justin panted, as he finally succeeded in catching hold of Harley, who had mistakenly chosen to perch on the back of Em’s chair.

“I asked for it,” Ted chuckled wryly. “Shouldn’t have mentioned ‘shit’. I’ll be back in a moment,” he declared, standing up and heading to the downstairs WC.

“I’ll just go see if Teddy needs any help,” Emmett mumbled, a guilty expression on his face as he trotted after his friend.

“That’s some ‘boyfriend’ you have, Justin,” Melanie quipped, shooting a sidelong glance at Brian. “Are your men always so much trouble?”

A devilish glint in his blue eyes, the teen replied, “Nope. Bob’s no trouble whatsoever.” He grinned at Vic, querying, “Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, aye,” Vic conceded, “a very decent bloke. Treats our Sunshine right.”

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” Michael interjected, grinning from ear to ear. “Maybe you can move in with him.”

“He still lives with his family,” Justin reported with a straight face.

“No worries, Kiddo,” Debbie insisted. “You know we like it when Bob visits.”

“Yeah, he’s a very entertaining sort,” her brother confirmed.

Brian sat stewing next to Carl. The little shit had a boyfriend. Well, that answered the question of how serious he had really been about Brian. Not at all, it seemed, if he was able to move on so quickly.

“When are you going to introduce him to us?” Lindsay eagerly inquired.

When Justin clarified, “Uh, Bob’s really just a fuck buddy.” Brian felt his gloom lift. Fuck, Kinney, he mentally chastised himself, you’re acting like a carpet muncher. You’ve never wanted to be anyone’s ‘boyfriend’.

Even so, Brian couldn’t help wondering where Justin had met this ‘Bob’. Was the guy trustworthy? Completely forgetting his resolution not to interfere again after the teen had ignored his advice about the go-go dancing, the adman resolved to check out the blond’s ‘buddy’. He wanted to be sure the fucker wasn’t taking advantage of Justin - the teen was sometimes entirely too trusting.

Smiling genially at the blond, Horvath inquired, “Would you perhaps like this ‘Bob’ to be more than-” He paused, floundering, before finishing, “Um, a ‘buddy’?”

“Hmm,” the pink-faced teen mulled it over for a moment. “I don’t think so. I’ll tell you about Bob later, okay?”

“Sure,” the detective replied. “I can give you my impression of the bloke.”

“ _Come on! Come eat! Hellooo Briaaan! Be quiet!_ ” the budgie interrupted the stilted conversation, drawing chuckles from his admirers.

“Bamama! Ya! Dada!” Gus seconded Harley.

“Is he saying ‘yes’ to his daddy but ‘bah’ to his mama?” Emmett questioned in confusion as he and Ted returned the the table, the accountant’s hair dripping wet but with all traces of budgie excrement removed.

“Of course, he wants Brian,” Michael proclaimed. “Who wouldn’t prefer him to-” He abruptly stopped speaking when he realised what he’d been about to say.

“Please, go on, Michael,” the bulldyke urged, glowering.

“That is, uh. That’s not what I meant!” the man shouted.

“‘Bamama’ is how Gussy pronounces ‘banana’,” Justin explained, ignoring Michael’s outburst. “Maybe he’s even associating ‘Brian’ with ‘daddy’.”

“Do you think so?” Lindsay interposed excitedly.

The teen shrugged. “We all refer to Brian as both ‘daddy’ and ‘Brian’ around Gus, so it’s possible.”

“I don’t believe Gus has quite figured it out yet.” Melanie dissented. “After all,” she snickered, “when we were watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on NBC this morning, he pointed at Ronald McDonald and yelled, ‘dada’.”

“Hahahaha!” Emmett howled. “Brian and that carrot-topped fast food icon!”

“Sonnyboy,” Brian declared solemnly as the others recovered from laughing themselves silly, “we need to have a talk. Your dada has nothing in common with that clown.”

Justin laughed so hard that tears started leaking from the corners of his eyes. He was grateful for the levity, since Mel mentioning the Macy’s parade had reminded him that he and his mum had always watched it together every year. Jennifer had told him that they’d first viewed the parade before he’d turned one year old - Justin babbling from his playpen and his mum sorting through recipes next to him.

As the pang of nostalgia eased, Justin looked at the people surrounding him and decided he’d never give up _this_ family, especially Deb and Vic, even if sticking with them meant he couldn’t restore his one-time rapport with his mom. This was his _home_ , where he was loved and accepted just as he was.

The teen was startled when he looked down at his plate and saw his spoon rising into the air, covered with gravy-drenched turkey and cornbread. While he’d been lost in maudlin remembrance of past Thanksgivings, Brian had apparently stood up to stretch - or for a smoke break - and had stopped to chat with Deb. He was now leaning against the back of Justin’s chair, absentmindedly spooning up the fattening food he’d earlier disdained. The blond didn’t utter a word, finding it strangely comforting that his former lover still liked to eat off his plate.

He tuned in to the discussion between Debbie and Brian when the redhead suddenly screeched, “You got _that much_ for your old mattress?”

“Huh? You sold your mattress? Why?” Michael demanded, turning away from David, with whom he’d just exchanged a kiss.

“I was hardly going to sleep on a mattress that the burglars had defiled,” Brian snarled.

“You mean they-” Emmett asked, eyes rounded in shock.

“No, they didn’t jack off on it,” Brian impatiently replied.

“They invaded your personal space,” Ted shuddered in sympathy, “stripping  the bed linens and the pillows. I wouldn’t want to sleep on it again either.”

The teen couldn’t help envying Ted for being so in tune with Brian, but he was glad that the two men were becoming friends. He’d always thought they had a similar sense of humor, even if Ted was more discreet about skewering others with his dry wit.

“Anyroad,” the adman reported, “I auctioned the mattress off, and I’ve written a check to the AIDS hospice for the proceeds.” Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he withdrew his wallet, removed a folded check, and handed it to Lindsay.

“That many zeros?” Lindsay marveled, starting goggle-eyed at the amount. “Are you sure this is right?”

“Holy cow!” Melanie gasped after snatching the check from her partner. “I take back what I said, Brian. You _do_ give to the community, even if your way of doing so is unique.”

“I heard through the grapevine,” Emmett commented, “that the purchaser paid so much for the mattress because it was the place where Brian _and_ Justin fucked. He’s apparently quite enamored of our blond.”

A growl that sounded suspiciously like, “Fucking Bob,” emanated from Brian, but the teen was sure he couldn’t have heard right. Even though his ex lover didn’t know _Bob_ was a dildo, not a man, Justin couldn’t believe that Brian cared about who he might be fucking. Why would he? The brunet had thrown him out like so much trash and had rebuffed all of Justin’s attempts to talk. Except, of course, for spouting unwanted advice about his go-go dancing. He supposed that did indicate a certain level of concern for his well-being, but it was a far cry from the way Brian used to lust after him, neither of them able to keep their hands off each other. Justin’s dick stirred as he recalled the steamy sex the morning of the burglary, the final time he’d seen that lust - and something more - in those gorgeous hazel eyes.

When the blond considered the gossip Em had just shared, however, he ceased worrying about his ex’s inconsistent attitude, and his burgeoning cockstand withered. It was kinda creepy-stalkerish that someone wanted Brian’s old mattress just because _Justin_ had slept and fucked on it. For the first time, he truly understood Brian’s reaction to the invasion of his privacy.

As if he’d been privy to the blond’s thoughts, the detective sharply questioned, “Did the rumors provide any clues as to the man’s identity? It sounds as if the purchaser may be obsessed with Justin.”

“Uh, no,” the queen spluttered. “I just thought it was hilarious that the mattress sold for such an outrageous price because of the Boy Wonder instead of Super Stud. I can check with my source to see if he knows anything else, though.”

“Do that,” Horvath gravely recommended. “It would be much easier to forestall a possible incident if we have that information.”

“Who’s your source?” Ted hissed at Emmett.

“Todd,” Em muttered. “Last night, he and his buddies were settling wagers in the backroom in regard to how much the mattress would go for.”

Focusing his gaze on Justin, the detective instructed, “Son, I want you to be really careful, alright? Pay extra attention to your surroundings and make sure you aren’t alone with anyone you don’t consider a friend.”

The teen swallowed hard, unnerved by the warning. “You think there’s a nutter out there who might kidnap me… or something?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” the copper replied. “It’s most likely gossip that has been grossly exaggerated in the retelling. As long as you’re cautious while we suss out the truth behind the rumors, you should be fine.”

Brian paled as he listened to the discussion. Fuck, he thought furiously, how could thumbing his nose at the prudish GLC hypocrites by auctioning off his mattress have resulted in this? His life was really for shit lately, what with the robbery, Kip Thomas’ allegations, the trick who’d tried to assault him, and now Justin possibly endangered.

“Kiddo,” Vic advised, “maybe you should stop go-go dancing until this is resolved.”

“Go-go dancing?” the copper quizzed.

Maybe something good would come out of this, after all, the adman mused. The brat might listen to the detective, even though he’d ignored Brian’s efforts to get him to see sense.

“Uh, I dance at Babylon - it’s a gay club - on Friday and Saturday nights,” the teen explained. “It’s perfectly safe, though; there are lots of people around.”

“But you walk home alone, Honey,” Debbie interjected, plainly worried. “That’s not safe even if there isn’t a psycho targeting you.”

Justin groaned, “I can’t take time off, not when I’ve just started the job.”

Quit the fucking job! Brian wanted to shout, refraining only because he knew it would just make the lad more stubborn.

Emmett, who’d been conferring in a hushed voice with Ted, volunteered, “Baby, either Teddy and I will walk you home, or we’ll spring for a taxi that’ll deposit you on Deb’s doorstep.”

“Thanks, guys,” Justin’s voice quavered, “but I can’t ask you to see me home. That’d completely fuck up your plans.”

“I’d be glad to help out,” Ted sincerely offered, smiling at the teen. “It’s not very far from the club to your house anyroad.”

“Me too,” Em insisted.

“I know,” Justin snapped his fingers, “I’ll ask Smythe whether one of the bouncers could walk me home. Babylon closes when my shift ends, so they’re done for the night anyway. I’m pretty sure Oscar would be willing to help, and no one would mess with a bruiser like him.”

Horvath nodded thoughtfully, assessing, “Promise me you’ll stick to that plan, and it should be okay for you to keep working at the club.”

“I promise,” Justin nodded.

Shit. Brian slouched in his seat, frustrated that the muppet had come up with a reasonable solution. The lad was too clever for his own good. He’d have a word with Smythe, he decided, just to make sure the club’s owner was aware of the situation and ensured Justin was never alone...

“Don’t worry,” Justin tried to reassure both himself and his friends, looking around the table at all the concerned faces. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be,” the matriarch of the family declared, reaching out and patting the blond on the cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sunshine.”

“Me neither, without you,” Justin husked, smiling tremulously at the redhead.

“Now,” Debbie declared briskly, rising from her chair, “why don’t we clear away the dinner dishes and take a break before we have dessert.”

“Go relax in your easy chair,” Justin urged. “You’ve been cooking all day. I’ve got this.”

“I’ll help,” Em sprang to his feet and began collecting dirty plates and silverware.

“We’ll give you a hand,” Linds offered for herself and Melanie. “Can you watch Gus, Brian?”

“Dadada,” the tyke burbled, stretching out his arms and bouncing in his highchair.

A few minutes with his Sonnyboy was just the ticket to lift his spirits, the brunet determined as he released his son from the highchair and scooped him up, toting him to the living room.

“All done,” Justin announced thirty minutes later, carting Harley’s birdcage into the living room and setting it on the coffee table. “Pans washed; leftovers refrigerated; a second load in the dishwasher, first load put away; gingerbread and apple pie in the oven.”

“Thanks, Honey,” Debbie acknowledged. “It did feel good to put my feet up.”

“ _Come eat! Come come come,_ ” the budgie chirped.

“In a bit, matey,” Vic chuckled ruefully, rubbing his bloated stomach. “I shouldn’t have eaten that last buttermilk biscuit.”

“Those were sinfully good, Teddy,” Em concurred, beaming at his friend.

“They’re all gone?” the accountant inquired, moaning, “Thank fuck,” when the queen nodded. “I think I put on a pound just looking at them when I removed them from the oven.”

“It’s about time someone else in this motley group displayed some interest in a proper diet,” Brian jeered from his seat on the carpet, where he was keeping an eye on his son, “although I’m the only one who was truly careful about the fats and carbohydrates I ingested. You don’t see me moaning and groaning about overeating,” he sententiously decreed, gesturing at his trim physique.

“You smug prick,” the bulldyke lawyer accused.

“Guilty as charged,” Brian concurred, grinning proudly.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Melanie groused.

Gus looked up at that moment, sporting an idental grin as he babbled, “Bah! Mama!” a line of drool sliding down his chin.

The lesbian reluctantly smiled at her son, grumbling, “What was I thinking when I let Lindsay talk me into using you as the donor?”

“These photos that were clipped to the fridge are fantastic,” Lindsay raved, interrupting the usual sparring between the frenemies, giggling as she glanced at the pictures.

“Let’s see,” Ted requested, chortling when the blonde handed him a photo of the attic cleaning crew. “You look good with a feather duster in your hand, Vic,” the accountant quipped. “You just need a frilly apron to complete the ensemble.”

“I have just the thing, darling,” Emmett cooed, perching on Vic’s lap. “I’ll bring it round for you tomorrow.”

“I like the one of Sunshine from his pre-Thanksgiving bake-a-thon with Vic,” Debbie laughed. “All you can see of his face is his blue eyes peering through a flour mask.”

“That’s not the way to exfoliate, Baby,” Em chided playfully.

“You missed this sketch, Linds,” Melanie chuckled as the photos were passed around for everyone to admire.

“Oh, wow!” the blonde giggled, holding up the cartoonish drawing so everyone could see. The left-hand panel showed a fat spider busily tatting lace, its creation swaying in a breeze wafting through the attic window. In the other panel, the arachnid was scuttling away, shouting, “I no longer feel welcome here, so I’ll set up shop elsewhere.” as Justin chased after her with a broom.

“That looks like the dragon that guards the property and evidence room down at the precinct,” Horvath declared, chuckling as he examined the sketch more closely. “Who drew this?”

“Uh, I did,” Justin admitted, feeling unusually bashful. Except for the show at the GLC, no one besides friends and family had seen any of his work. He held his breath as he waited for the the bluff detective to state his opinion.

“You’re really talented, son,” the copper praised. “If I were you, I’d pass on the go-go stuff and concentrate on honing my art.”

Calls of, “fucking A,” “here, here,” and “damned right,” came from some of the others in the room, leaving the blond wondering if anyone other than Em approved of his second job.

“Ehm, I’m dancing so I can pay for college,” Justin mumbled defensively.

“Apply for scholarships - and loans if need be,” the policeman deliberated. “Then you won’t need to dance except for fun.”

At the teen’s crestfallen look, Horvath held up a hand, encouraging, “Just think about it. I won’t badger you further tonight.”

Justin gulped. He had a feeling that meant the detective would return to the topic later on.

“Turn on the telly, Vic,” Debbie requested. “Maybe NBC is showing a recap of the highlights from the Macy’s parade.”

“I doubt it, Sis,” Vic contradicted as he pressed the power button on the remote. “It’s more likely to be NFL football.”

“I think the New England Patriots are slated to play,” Horvath related.

The picture that came up on the screen soon confirmed that NBC was airing a football game, with an announcer informing viewers that the Minnesota Vikings were up six to nil over the New England Patriots.

“I like watching men in tight pants as much as any other gay boy,” Emmett commented, “but I just can’t drum up any interest in the game.”

“Soccer’s much more interesting,” Justin opined. “Too bad there’s so little coverage here in the U.S.”

“What do you know about soccer?” Brian asked dismissively.

“I played for St James for three years, until I was outed as gay and kicked off the team,” Justin disclosed.

“Huh? How didn’t I know that?” the brunet probed.

“You never asked,” the teen retorted. “You just assumed I wasn’t interested in sports - which I wasn’t, really, except for soccer.”

Brian glanced out the window at the falling snow. He wished the weather were better so he could test the lad’s skills - find out if his claim that he played soccer was boastful malarkey or not.

Emmett gushed, “I’d love to see you play, even though I’m not into sports.”

Affronted, Brian questioned, “Why not watch me? I’m good; after all, _I_ had a soccer scholarship.”

“Oh, pooh!” Emmett leered at Justin. “I’d much rather watch Baby and his bodacious bubble butt in those clingy shorts, not your flat arse.”

“Whatever,” Brian shrugged indifferently and stood up. Hiding his irritation at the flamboyant man’s comment, he glanced at his son.

“I’ve got him,” Lindsay stated in a soothing, earth mother tone, sitting down next to Gus. “Go have a smoke; you’ll be less tetchy.”

Muttering that putting up with a bunch of lezzies and drama queens entitled anyone to be grouchy, Brian snagged his leather jacket from the entryway and headed for the back stoop, pulling out one of the joints he’d had the foresight to stash in the inner pocket. Once the doobie was lit, he inhaled deeply before blowing out smoke rings that merged with the swirling snowflakes.

“Mind if I take a toke?” Vic inquired as he closed the back door behind himself moments later.

Brian didn’t say anything as he handed the reefer to the older man.

The men puffed at the joint in companionable silence for a bit before the adman casually remarked, “The brat has certainly landed on his feet, finding a new home with you and Deb.”

“Brian,” the other man chided, “he’s a good kid - always ready to lend a hand with whatever needs doing.”

“Except when an alarm needs arming,” Brian mumbled.

“Jesus, let it go,” Vic recommended. “It’s not like you to hold a grudge.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one whose privacy - and trust - was violated,” the brunet countered. “I gave Justin a place to live, and look how he repaid me.”

“You’re fighting your own feelings, lad,” the older man stated quietly. “No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s plain that you still care.”

“Fuck,” Brian cursed, taking another deep toke.

“That persistent little shit has gotten in under the wire,” Vic averred. After a pause during which Brian didn’t deny his assertion, he continued, “But, if you don’t get your head out of your ass, ragazzo, you’re going to lose Justin. He won’t wait around for you forever.”

The brunet grunted noncommittally before suddenly blurting out in an accusatory tone, “Who’s Bob?” Shit, he berated himself - so much for his vaunted subtlety.

“Bob’s just a boy toy,” the other man responded perfunctorily.

Attempting to appear indifferent, the adman conjectured, “The brat’s just using him?”

“Vic shook his head, chuckling, “You could say that.”

Brian frowned. Couldn’t the man give him a straightforward ‘yes’ or ‘no’, for fuck’s sake?

“You need to let go of your anger towards Justin,” Vic stressed, “regardless of whether he set the alarm the day of the burglary or not. The fuzz may never find out what happened, no matter how long they investigate.”

“Can’t trust him,” Brian stubbornly reiterated, scuffing at the snow with one Gucci-shod foot.

“Bullshit!” Vic remonstrated. “That lad’s as responsible as they come. And if he made a mistake with the alarm, so be it. Surely, you’ve heard, ‘To err is human…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian huffed, completing the proverbial phrase, “‘To forgive, divine’. I bet Pope hadn’t met anyone as annoying as that little shit, though.”

“You seemed to enjoy the way he ‘annoyed’ you,” Vic jested.

“Hmm,” the brunet evaded answering.

“Listen, I’d be the first to admit that I had a heckuva lot of fun before I got this fucking disease,” Vic reflected, “but for a partner like Justin, I’d have changed.” Clapping the younger man on the shoulder, he insisted, “Don’t fuck this up. You may not get another chance.”

Brian didn’t turn around as Vic reentered the house, leaving him to the solitude of the falling snow and onrushing dusk. Could he forgive the teen? he wondered. Even a couple days ago, the answer would have been a resounding ‘No!’ but now he wasn’t so certain.

“Come and get it!” Justin shouted from the dining area, after carrying the warm apple pie and gingerbread, along with vanilla ice cream and apricot-lemon topping, to the table. On the sideboard, a full carafe of coffee, another carafe with hot water, a basket with a variety of teas, a sugar bowl, and a creamer awaited the horde that trooped in from the living room.

“Christ, do you want me to die from a sugar overdose?” Brian snarked as he sauntered back into the house, warily eyeing all the pies, breads, and custards.

“You’ll do yourself in soon enough,” the blond quipped as Brian approached the sideboard, where he began ladling sugar into one of the mugs. “You ought to leave a little room for coffee,” he taunted as the brunet dumped in another heaping spoonful of white granules, before finally reaching for the coffee pot.

Michael, who’d tromped down the stairs moments before, wildly waving a sheet of paper, seconded Brian’s complaint. “You’ll give us diabetes, forcing all that sugar on us,” he cavilled.

Justin was puzzled when he noticed Michael nudging one of the apple crisps over, until the appley dessert was immediately in front of his plate. Had the doofus deduced from the brown, crumbly topping that brown sugar had been used? It seemed that Michael had rarely, if ever, baked with Deb and Vic, so he probably wouldn’t have personal knowledge of the ingredients in an apple crisp. Shrugging, the teen put it down to a lucky guess. Somehow, Michael had then leaped to the erroneous conclusion that brown sugar didn’t cause diabetes. Justin was quite certain the dweeb hadn’t a clue that raw sugar was generally brown in color.

“Sweetie,” Emmett demurred, “it’s more complicated than that. Sugar by itself doesn’t cause diabetes.”

“Yes it does,” the other man insisted. “Diabetes is that you have too much sugar in your blood, no?”

“Then Bri would need regular insulin injections,” Ted deadpanned as the adman stirred liquid into his sugar.

“You’re a regular comedian, Theodore,” the adman grumped. “You must’ve been on _Laugh-In._ ”

“Huh?” Emmett and Justin looked at each other in confusion.

Ted protested, “I’m not that _old_ . I was barely four when _Laugh-In_ went off the air.”

Vic reminisced, “Rowan and Martin were so goddamned funny.”

“I assume that’s where you got some of your ‘quaint’ expressions, Theodore - that and _The Lawrence Welk Show_.” Brian mocked.

“Hey,” Debbie objected, “that man had some smooth moves.”

“By the way, look what I found,” Michael interrupted excitedly, waving the piece of paper again. “The twink wrote this dirty love poem to Brian…”

“Where’d you get that?” Justin questioned angrily.

“It was in _my_ desk,” Michael sneered, “which means it belongs to _me_.”

“Michael, Honey,” Debbie tried to defuse the tension, “you know that’s Sunshine’s room now. You can’t just go through his things.”

“Pfft,” Michael dismissed his mother’s concerns, “it’s a good thing I did. This is some sort of a sicko poem in Latin - I more or less translated it - it doesn’t even rhyme. Brian’s the one who should be upset; the little putz drew him naked.” Begrudgingly, he mumbled, “The drawing’s pretty good.”

Flapping the piece of paper about again, he gazed at Brian earnestly. “I wanted to warn you about this hogwash. It’s all about naked Brian getting scared by a pussy before the angel of love turns him into a mouse.” Michael’s brow furrowed as he looked at the poem again, “Or maybe you fall in love with a mouse, Brian. That part’s kinda tough to translate.”

“ _That’s_ a smutty love poem?” Em asked Ted. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“Exactly!” Michael crowed. “It’s all weird and perverted. You really dodged a bullet, Brian. It’s lucky you got rid of the psycho twink when you did.”

By this point, Justin was laughing hysterically. Granted, his thoughts had been pretty fucking dirty when he’d crafted the poem, but how had Michael derived ‘a pussy’, ‘the angel of love’, and ‘a mouse’ from what he’d written?

“That’s an interesting interpretation, Michael,” he gasped out between giggles. “We should have a translation contest while we eat dessert; perhaps someone will uncover a different hidden meaning in the ‘hogwash’.”

“What’s the prize?” Em asked with a sly wink. “A kiss from you?”

“Nope,” Debbie interjected. “You get to take home a basket of leftovers.”

“No need to cook tomorrow,” Lindsay rejoiced, grinning at Melanie.

“Hmm, turkey and ham sandwiches.” the lawyer murmured appreciatively.

“Let me see that drawing,” Brian ordered as everyone reseated themselves at the table. After taking the sheet of paper from Michael, he scrutinized it, particularly the crotch area. He then nodded approvingly at Justin. “You sketched my proportions correctly. If you described my nine inches with equal accuracy in your ode, I don’t mind being the subject of your youthful fantasies.”

“Vain prick,” Ted muttered.

“I’ve got it, so I flaunt it,” Brian retorted smugly, swivelling his hips before strolling to his chair.

“Mhmm, gingerbread with ice cream and apricot topping,” Emmett hummed in delight, cutting off a big chunk, adding a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side, and then drizzling everything with sauce. Offering the plate to his friend, he teased playfully, “This is the only time it’s okay to be ‘vanilla’, Teddy.”

“Licking vanilla ice cream off your lover’s naked body-” Brian stuttered to a halt. What the fuck was wrong with him, blurting that out? He’d never hear the end of this from his friends. He rushed to hand the poem back to Michael, hoping no one had heard him above the other conversational babble.

No such luck, of course. “I’m all ears,” Emmett declared, propping his elbows on the table, placing his chin in his hands, and staring at Brian avidly.

Fortunately, Dr Dave, who had intercepted the poem and had quickly read it, chortled loudly, before lauding, “Um, sweetheart, it’s really great that you put such effort into your translation, but given my rudimentary knowledge of Latin from my medical studies, I can tell you’re way off.”

“It’s perverted, though, right?” Michael inquired as he cut himself a generous wedge of apple crisp.

“I don’t think so,” the chiropractor responded tactfully, “but someone with more than my very basic knowledge of Latin would be a better judge.”

“Ma,” Michael impored, “you learned Latin in catechism. Take a look-see, wouldya? I just know the blond brat is a deviant.” His voice rising, he shrilled, “He has Brian fucking a pussy!”

“Calm down, son,” Horvath requested. “Your accusations are getting rather muddled.”

“I’m not your son!” Michael yelled, stabbing his fork into his pie. A dollop of ice-cream-drenched apple took flight, sailing across the table to land on Brian’s forehead, from whence vanilla ice cream and apple slid down the brunet’s nose.

Brian stuck his tongue out, catching part of the concoction and slurped it into his mouth.

Feigning enlightenment, Em drawled, “Oh! That’s what you meant by licking…”

“Mel, what do you think this means?” Debbie asked, missing the byplay as she concentrated on Justin’s poem.

“Hmm,” the legal beagle frowed as she tried to suss it out. “Something about ‘beauty’…”

“Yeah, and ‘love’,” Debbie concurred, smiling at her son. “You got the word ‘love’ right, Honey, but there’s no ‘angel’.

Michael scowled as the bulldyke whooped, “I’ve got it! You’re praising the beauty of the male form, right, comparing it to the beauty of nature?”

“ _My_ form,” Brian interjected complacently, “not just any male’s.”

“You’re both right,” Justin conceded. “The poem is about the beauty of the male form - specifically Brian’s.” Thank fuck, he thought, his face reddening, that Debbie hadn’t realized he’d called Brian _my love_. The brunet was already overly conceited about the whole thing.

“I still think it’s fucking dirty,” Michael muttered sourly, slumping in his chair.

“Of course, it’s dirty,” Ted riposted. “It’s about _Brian_ , after all.”

“ _Hellooo, Briaaan,_ ” Harley chirped, the brunet’s name seeming more drawn out than before to his chuckling audience.

“That was delicious,” the detective praised thirty minutes later, spooning up the last bite of custard and setting the dish atop his plate, on which only a few crumbs from a slice of zucchini bread, a cube of gingerbread, and a wedge of apple pie remained. “Good thing I’m not wearing a uniform any longer,” he observed, patting his belly, “I’d never manage to button up the shirt.”

Glancing at Brian, he remarked, “Looks like you liked the custard, too, Kinney.”

The adman gazed down blankly at three empty custard dishes. Where the fuck had those come from? he wondered. He _might_ have eaten one custard, but three? No way. If the blond brat were sitting next to him, he’d suspect the teen of playing a practical joke by pushing them in front of him, but he had no ready culprit to blame in this instance. “Huh,” he belatedly grunted at the copper, shrugging to indicate he had no idea where the custard cups had come from.

“Help yourselves to an after-dinner drink, a cuppa, or some more coffee,” Vic recommended, “and relax in the living room. Sis and I’ll join you after we clear away these desserts.”

“I’ll help-” Justin sprang up like a jack-in-the-box again, but Vic dissented, “Nope, you’ve done more than enough, Sunshine.”

“Well, then, how about I change Gus for you?” the teen turned to the lesbians as a noxious smell wafted from the foot of the table.

“Fuck, Justin, you’re a lifesaver,” a relieved Melanie replied, pinching her nostrils shut and breathing through her mouth. “I shouldn’t let you take on that nasty duty, but…”

“He’s a glutton for punishment, if you ask me,” Ted opined, standing up and backing away from the table.

“If Sonnyboy didn’t look so much like me, there’s no way I’d believe he’s my kid,” Brian stated, the custard he’d swear he hadn’t eaten threatening to come back up. “I know I never smelled like that,” he finished self-righteously.

“Oh, really?” Melanie snarked, raising her eyebrows. “It must have been your clone that hogged our upstairs bathroom for half an hour and then rushed out of the house, leaving me and Linds to fumigate…”

Justin giggled as he freed Gus from his high chair and carried the tyke out of the room. “Like father, like son, huh, buddy?”

Fifteen minutes later, the teen toted the freshly changed nipper into the living room, the tyke babbling, “Bah! Jushun! Bamama!”

“You just made room for the next course, didn’t you, Gussy?” the blond chuckled.

“I was about to come check on you,” Lindsay stated. “I thought maybe you couldn’t find the diaper bag.”

“Gus decided to fill another nappy - right after I’d finished changing him and snapping up his onesie,” Justin ruefully explained.

“He loves to do that to me,” Melanie laughed. “I’d swear he waits till Lindsay hands him off to me to perform that trick…”

“Good job, Sonnyboy,” Brian praised, smirking at the lesbian and the teen.

Justin burst out laughing when Mel stuck her tongue out at the brunet.

“Oh, look, here are a couple checkerboards,” Emmett declared, pulling them out of the credenza beneath the TV.

“I’ll play you, Em,” Ted offered. “We can bone up for the New Year’s tournament.”

“You’re a lost cause, Theodore,” Brian snorted, “if you need a childish game like checkers to ‘bone up’.”

“Har de har,” the accountant rolled his eyes before sticking out his tongue at the adman.

“Can’t you and the bulldyke come up with a more mature retort than that?” Brian taunted.

“Sure,” the accountant laughed, his eyes dancing as he placed his thumbs in his ears, wiggled his fingers, crossed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue again.

“I said more mature, not less,” Brian snickered. “What is that - an imitation of Emmett?”

“It’s a ‘Temmett’,” the slandered queen claimed.

“A what?” Brian gaped at taller man as he dropped the checkers games on the coffee table.

“That’s brilliant!” the teen interjected, drawing Brian’s questioning gaze to him. “It’s a combination of ‘Ted’ and ‘Emmett’,” he clarified when the adman continued to stare at him in bafflement.

“If you think something so… juvenile is ‘brilliant’,” Brian scoffed, “you’ll never have a future in advertising.”

“Dadada,” Gus burbled. “Jushun. Bah!”

Brian glanced at his son, to see him waggling his fingers near his ears, Justin guiding his motions, both boys sticking their tongues out at him.

Horvath guffawed, “That’s told you, Kinney!” Grinning at Justin, he proposed to the teen, “If no one else wants to play, would you like to take me on?”

Forty minutes and two games later, the chagrined teen threw up his hands in defeat. “Fuck, I thought I knew how to play,” he complained, “but you’ve trounced me two times in a row.”

“I’ve got years more experience at cat-and-mouse contests,” the copper opined. “Plus, you’ve got a couple tells that signal your moves, son.”

“I do?” Justin asked in amazement. “What are they?”

“Hmm,” the detective teased, “I’m not sure I should tell you. I might draw you as an opponent at the New Year’s tournament. It’d be better for me if you were still disadvantaged.”

“If I couldn’t win with Gussy helping push my ‘men’ across the board and Harley distracting you with, “Hello, Baby!” and “Come eat!” I don’t think I’ll improve enough to turn the tables that soon.” Justin laughingly refuted, shaking his head at how thoroughly he’d been beaten as he tousled the tyke’s hair.

“I’ll let you drive yourself crazy for a few days, trying to suss out those tells,” Horvath quipped, his eyes twinkling wickedly.

Justin pouted for a moment - he didn’t like to lose - before deciding that he’d ask Daphne to clue him in. His bestie must’ve noticed if he had tells. Of course, he might have to bribe her since she wouldn’t want to lose to him in the future either. He frowned as he tried to come up with a suitable inducement.

“You can’t leave me hanging,” he protested. The copper was really enjoying his frustration far too much.

“We can meet up at the diner sometime next week and play another coupla rounds,” Horvath hedged. “Maybe I’ll even reveal one of your giveaways then.”

Justin groaned, fighting the urge to jump up and call Daphne right away, even though he knew that wasn’t the right method for winkling the information out of of her.

“Oh, Brian, I wanted to thank you for the box of Tinker Toys,” Lindsay addressed the brunet, “but Gus is far too young for them.”

Brian had been trying to unobtrusively watch the interaction between Justin and Horvath, while sipping on another Voodoo beer. He couldn’t help admiring the way the teen dandled Gus on his lap, while also playing checkers and holding up his end of the conversation. For all he’d derided checkers as a puerile game, he doubted he’d have fared as well as the teen if he’d been matched against the detective.

Lindsay’s comment confused Brian at first. Why was she jabbering on about Tinker Toys? It was only when he noticed the furtive expression on Justin’s face that he realised the teen must’ve been the one to make the purchase. After Vic’s lecture, and considering the way he’d treated Justin the day before - when they’d switched off with babysitting Gus - he supposed he might have been a mite too hard on the brat. So, he just grunted, “Whatever,” and took another swallow of beer.

“Asshole,” the bulldkye muttered, “you don’t even care enough to buy age-appropriate toys for your son.”

Brian chuckled wryly. It looked like the détente between him and Melanie was a thing of the past.

When Carl rose, claiming he needed to stretch so he could maybe fit in another piece of pie, Brian also stood up. He eyed both Vic and Ted, tipping his head toward the door, before following the detective out of the living room.

“Can I offer you a shot of Beam Black Label in exchange for the beer?” he inquired.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Horvath replied. “Beam makes a more than adequate digestif.”

“I have to agree with you there,” Vic winked as he walked into the dining area, pointing to the corner where he’d stashed the bourbon for the brunet.

“Yep,” Ted concurred, eyeing the bottle avidly once Brian had retrieved it.

“Slainte,” Brian toasted, raising his glass.

“Saluti,” Vic chimed in.

“Prost,” Ted declared.

“Na zdravie,” Horvath offered, before they slammed back their shots.

“Maybe one more?” the accountant suggested, the others readily expressing their approval of that notion.

It didn’t take long for the four men to kill off the bottle, Vic gazing into his glass mournfully once the last of the golden-tinted liquor had vanished. “You should’ve brought two bottles, stronzo,” the man playfully accused.

Brian let out a rare, genuine belly laugh. “It’s been an age since either you or Deb called me ‘asshole’ in Italian,” he huffed.

“Kokot,” the detective jested. “That’s Slovak for the same thing.”

“Arschloch,” Ted muttered. “What?” he inquired innocently when Brian glared at him. “I thought you’d want to know the German too.”

“It’s ‘rassgat’ in Icelandic,” Horvath threw in. “I learned that one when a sloshed, belligerent tourist was hauled into the drunk tank the other day.”

“Sounds like ‘rat’s ass’,” Vic chuckled.

“There’s no single word for ‘asshole’ in Irish Gaelic, so I’ll adopt the Icelandic,” Brian decided.

Slinging an arm around Vic’s shoulders, the adman promised, “I’ll bring you another bottle in a coupla days. I intended to give you this one before we necked it.”

“You’re a good rassgat,” joked Vic.

“Jesus, I’m so stuffed I can barely move,” Mel carped as the rest of the diners emerged from the living room.

“I’ve got a wheelbarrow you can borrow,” Debbie teased. “Linds can roll you and Gus home in it.”

“That might be safer transportation than our car,” the blonde woman stated uneasily. “The snow’s been coming down fast and furious. The snowplows will be concentrating on the highways and main roads, not the side streets.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” Brian and Ted both offered.

“None of us are driving,” the detective lectured, “not after all we’ve had to drink. We’ll either have to get home Shanks’ pony or trudge a couple blocks to Liberty Avenue and catch cabs from there.”

“But my car…” Melanie spluttered.

“...will still be here tomorrow.” the redhead finished for the dyke.

“You don’t have to work, Sweetie, so why not stay home and enjoy a little nookie?” Lindsay wheedled. She’d started speaking in a whisper, but then her voice had risen in pitch.

“Spare me,” Em moaned, “I’m gonna hurl if you keep nattering about lezzie nookie.”

“I’m gonna go find a trick to fuck, so I can erase that disgusting image,” Brian snarled, before snatching his jacket and stomping out of the house, slamming the door behind himself.

“What’s up his ass?” Debbie asked in astonishment.

“Nothing. That’s the problem,” Emmett giggled.

“Brian wait,” Michael called out, trotting down the stairs, a disheveled Doctor Dave behind him.

“Where’ve _you_ been?” the redhead inquired.

Her son didn’t answer, pulling open the door and shrieking, “Briaaan! Dammit, he’s gone,” the man huffed, finally closing the door ten seconds later.

“I’ll keep you warm, Honeybun,” Dr Dave promised. “Why don’t we go take another _nap_.”

The manner in which the chiropractor stressed ‘nap’ made Justin suspect what they’d been doing upstairs. “Wait a minute,” the appalled teen protested, “you weren’t in my room, were you?”

“I already told you, it’s _my_ room,” Michael retorted. “Besides, we only christened it a little.”

“Ew!” Emmett interjected. “Baby, you’d better sleep on the couch tonight.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” David apologized. “I didn’t realise you were using Michael’s old room, Justin. I mean, I thought, with those geeky sheets and wallpaper and curtains and-” He finally stopped talking as he looked at his angry boyfriend, probably realising he was nixing any chance of another ‘nap’.

“Here’s that basket of leftovers you earned with your translation skills, Mel,” the redhead announced, handing the lawyer a heavy wicker container.

“What’s in here - bricks?” the dyke questioned, almost dropping the basket.

“Do you ladies live nearby?” the copper asked, gallantly holding out Lindsay’s coat so she could put it on.

“Yes, we’re only five blocks away,” the blonde confirmed.

“Why don’t I accompany you? I’ll carry the basket while you tote your son,” Horvath proposed.

“Are you sure? We don’t want to put you out.” Melanie stated.

“It’s no big deal,” the detective assured them, smiling warmly. “I’ll catch a cab after I see you home.”

Fuck, but the copper was a really good guy, Justin mused. He handed Gus to Lindsay, but the tyke tried to squirm out his mother’s arms, insisting, “Mwah! Jushun! Mwah!”

Leaning down, he placed a big smack on the little guy’s forehead, before turning to Horvath and sincerely remarking, “I’m glad you could join us, detective,” as he shook the copper’s hand.

“Why don’t you call me Carl?” the man suggested. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony any longer.”

“Alright… Carl,” the blond bashfully replied. It felt a little strange to call the man he was beginning to think of as another surrogate father by his first name, but he guessed if he could call Vic by name, he could do the same with the detective.

“Fuck this handshaking shit,” Debbie joshed, giving the copper a rib-cracking hug. “Stop by the diner soon, you hear?”

“I will,” Horvath pledged, giving the redhead what looked like a besotted smile to the teen.

Once they’d shut the door behind everyone, Vic declared, “Fuck, I’m knackered.”

“Me too,” his sister concurred. “Even if it is all of seven-thirty.”

“Why don’t you go take a load off in front of the telly?” the teenager proposed. “I’ll make us all a cuppa.”

“Sounds about right, Sunshine. Make mine holiday spiced plum, wouldya?” Debbie asked, ruffling the blond’s hair as she walked by on the way to the kitchen.

“Pumpkin spice for me,” Vic requested, “and maybe a wee slice of pumpkin pie to go with it.”

When Justin joined the siblings in the living room, he was carrying a trayful of tea and desserts, all three of them somehow making room for another bite from the Thanksgiving feast.

A frustrated Brian shoved open the door to his loft at eight o’clock. He still wasn’t sure what had triggered his abrupt departure from Deb’s house; it hadn’t been the notion of the munchers going at it, disturbing as that was. It probably had something to do with that fucking teen, he mused, carelessly throwing his leather jacket onto his couch, from which it slid to the floor, landing in a heap.

The brunet hadn’t even considered that it was far too early for anyone except losers to be at Babylon as he’d stomped off down the sidewalk. Then, the entire time he’d been inside the club, he’d felt like he was being watched - as if the trick who’d assaulted him was hiding in the shadows, staring at him, and licking his lips in anticipation of what he was going to do to Brian.

The brunet hadn’t been able to abide the eerie sensation, plodding home after only twenty minutes and two shots of Beam. The whole way, he’d cursed the fucking trick who was messing with his mind, making him uneasy in a place that had been a safe haven since he’d first ventured into the club on his sixteenth birthday.

Now that he was home, he wanted to forget about the whole fiasco. Striding over to the liquor cart, he removed the cork and took a deep draught directly from a bottle of Beam. As he gulped down the bourbon, his eyes fell on the bare spot his dining table and chairs had once occupied. He’d been sitting naked on one of those chairs when Justin had dripped vanilla ice cream all over his body.

The tension in his muscles began to ease as Brian strolled toward his bed, abandoning the bourbon. Maybe he could recreate part of those ‘vanilla adventures’, sans ice cream. It would have to be in bed since the MomentoItalia chair had vanished with the other burgled goods.

The brunet swiftly dismissed all thought of the burglary since he didn’t want to ruin his improving mood. He kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, and quickly removed his shirt, tossing the garment aside. Then, he lay down on top of his duvet and slowly flicked open the buttons on his jeans one by one, palming his hard-on, grateful that he’d gone commando. Closing his eyes, he imagined another pair of hands gradually sliding his jeans down his hips and pulling them free of his legs.

Those lightly calloused fingers were now stroking his naked thighs, a hot mouth trailing along behind, lapping up pools of vanilla ice cream.

That ghostly mouth breathed out, “Hellooo, Briaaan,” onto his balls, causing goosebumps to skitter across his thighs.

Brian’s hand flew up and down, his thumb brushing across his slit, as he tried to recreate the sensation a tantalizing tongue had once produced.

“Fuuuck!” the brunet screamed when he felt that warm tongue lap up the rivulets of imaginary ice cream from his shaft.

Brian passed out as the last streamer of jizz flowed out of his cock, a satisfied smile on his lips, a light, wheezing snore the only sound in the loft.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sol, nubes, caelum caeruleum  
> Quod est pulchra,  
> Lunam, sidera, caelo noctis  
> Quod est pulchra,  
> At tu, amor meus, tu est formosa omnium"
> 
> (The sun, clouds, blue sky  
> That is beautiful,  
> The moon, the stars, the night sky  
> That is beautiful,  
> But you, my love, you are the most gorgeous of all)
> 
> As best we could determine, this is how Michael came up with his translation of Justin’s poem:  
> Michael assumes ‘nubes’ means ‘nude’. (Let’s be honest - what else could it be with a drawing of naked Brian above the poem?) He thinks ‘pulchra’ means ‘pussy’. (It does kind of sound like some Spanish rude word.) Hence, ‘amor’ must be ‘Amor, the angel of love’ (clearly). He guesses ‘meus’ is a ‘mouse’. And ‘formosa’ is a ‘form’. So it’s pretty obvious that Justin’s written about a naked Brian who got scared by pussy and then Amor turns him into a mouse. Or he falls in love with a mouse. 
> 
> Also, if you want to see the seating arrangement at Debs' Thanksgiving dinner, the picture is to be found here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=22  
> OR in our FanDoc here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit


	23. Chapter 23

Justin glanced at the door when the bell jingled, glad to see Harry jog into the diner. He’d just worked a ten-hour day, serving everyone by himself from seven until nine o’clock that morning, while Debbie hit the early-bird specials at Target. Then he’d stayed past the end of his shift because both Kiki and Harry were running late as they also took part in the post-Thanksgiving buying frenzy.

“Take a look at this,” Harry requested, pulling a mobile phone out of his jeans pocket.

“You have your cell phone,” Justin deadpanned, “What’s the big deal?”

“This is my _new_ Nokia phone,” the other waiter emphasized. “I waited over an hour at the Verizon store for the delivery truck to be unloaded and for the sales staff to enter them into their inventory.”

Justin stared at him blankly.

“C’mon man, it’s a different color from my old one.” Harry complained. “I got to choose between azure blue, silver gray, carmine red, and black.”

“Hmm,” Justin considered the colour, “that actually looks like ‘cherry red’ to me.”

“Whatever,” the Asian bloke replied dismissively, “red is rad.”

Justin still wasn’t sure why Harry was so excited. Maybe he’d gotten a Black Friday deal, he mused. “Was it on sale or something?”

“Of course not,” the other waiter replied. “It’s new on the market, just released here in the U.S.”

“If it wasn’t on sale, why did you brave the ravening hordes on the busiest shopping day of the year?” the puzzled teen asked. “Why not wait a coupla days?”

“Man, it’s the latest and greatest,” Harry enthused, dropping the phone into Justin’s palm. “Feel that. It weighs only 3.4 ounces, as compared to the old model, which was 6 ounces.”

“For 2.6 ounces you stood in line at the Verizon store? You’re crazy,” the blond assessed.

Harry threw his hands up in the air, accusing, “You have no appreciation for technology, you heathen. Don’t expect to borrow Mr Carmine when you need to make a call.”

Chuckling, Justin inquired, “Will you be okay on your own till Kiki gets here? I’m dancing at Babylon tonight, and I’d like to get off my feet for a couple hours before that.”

The other man looked around the packed eatery, a few patrons waving their hands in an effort to flag down a server. “Go on with you,” he ordered. “I’ll be fine.”

As Justin walked out of the diner, he heard Harry cheekily yelling, “Hold your dicks, gents. And you ladies grab whatever anatomy you prefer…”

The teen had only walked two blocks when he started getting jumpy, the itch between his shoulder blades making him feel like someone was watching him. He’d forgotten all about his promise to take a taxi, which Deb had insisted on before she’d left the diner after her shift ended. Justin had protested that there was surely no need to take such precautions during the day, but his surrogate mother had been adamant that it was better to be safe than sorry, even pressing five dollars into his hand to cover the fare.

He walked briskly, his head swiveling from side to side as he kept a lookout for any suspicious characters, unable to enjoy the sunshine, which had broken through the clouds for the first time in days. The other pedestrians thronging Liberty Avenue were smiling and chatting, toting bags filled with Black Friday purchases.

“Fuck,” the teen muttered, irritated with himself for behaving like a Nervous Nellie. If there were actually a threat, he’d feel much better if he could either confront it or avoid it. He hoped Horvath was correct that he’d be okay as long as he was careful.

His rushed pace had him pushing open the door to Deb’s house a few minutes later.

“Sunshine?” Debbie called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s me,” the teen confirmed, his heart pounding as he shut and relocked the door, the crawling sensation finally easing. “Silly git,” he chided himself.

“I saw you walking down the sidewalk. Why didn’t you take a cab?” the redhead chastised as he entered the kitchen.

“I forgot all about it,” the teen admitted, “until I was part way home.” After opening the fridge, he snagged one of the Roundabout beers Brian had brought to the Thanksgiving feast, pried off the cap, and gulped half of it in one go.

“What’s up, Kiddo?” Vic asked as Justin wiped the froth off of his upper lip before taking a smaller swallow. “I’ve never seen you chug beer like that.”

“It’s nothing,” the blond mumbled, leaning back against the counter.

“I doubt nothing has you pale enough to pass for a ghost,” the older man retorted.

“I wish Em had never shared those rumors about the mattress auction!” Justin blurted. “I’m sure it was just my imagination, but I had the crazy feeling someone was following me while I walked home.”

“We’re all going to worry until the rumors about Brian’s mattress are resolved,” Debbie commiserated as she carried a plate heaped with ham and turkey sandwiches over to the the table.

Vic followed his sister to the table with reheated stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce, cornbread, and freshly sautéed green beans. “Here, Kiddo,” he advised, talking the milk from the fridge, pouring a glass, and exchanging it for the Roundabout. “This is better for you than beer. You’ll need your wits about you if you’re going to dance later tonight.”

“Listen up, Sunshine,” the motherly woman demanded as she sat down. “You’ve got to be careful until Carl gives us the all-clear. So, Vic’s going to walk with you to Babylon tonight and tomorrow night.”

“Every Friday and Saturday for as long as necessary,” Vic confirmed. “Granted, people won’t be that drunk at eight o’clock, but it gets dark early at this time of year, and there’s not much foot traffic in these wintry conditions. It’s supposed to start snowing again this evening; if you’re out on your lonesome, it’s possible no one would notice if you were assaulted.”

“Thanks,” Justin mumbled, looking down to hide the tears in his eyes. He was warmed by their protectiveness but frustrated that it was necessary. “I still feel like a weakling, though. I should be able to protect myself.”

“What? You think just because someone’s big and strong they can protect themselves from a stalker?” Debbie protested. “Anyone who takes something like this lightly is a fool.”

“Brian wouldn’t need someone to protect him,” the teen objected.

“Then he’d be what Sis just said - a fool,” Vic responded firmly. “We all depend on each other in this family.”

The teen didn’t really believe them, but there was no sense in arguing about it.

“Eat,” Debbie commanded. “Build up your energy since you insist on dancing.”

Fucking maybe-stalker, Justin brooded to himself. This was making the already strong disapproval about the go-go gig more difficult to counter. “Lunch was hours ago,” he belatedly acknowledged, “so maybe a bite to eat would help.”

“How many hours this time?” Vic wondered.

“Haven’t eaten since noon,” Justin absently replied as he drenched a helping of stuffing in gravy, placed a dollop of cranberry sauce on his plate, served himself some green beans, added a piece of cornbread, and finally selected a ham and turkey sandwich from the platter.

“That must be a record,” joked Debbie. “You’ve been fasting nearly five hours.”

“How am I supposed to get my mouth around this monster?” the blond asked, pondering the multi-layered, double-decker sandwich.

Debbie’s lips twitched. “Honey, I bet you’ve had plenty of practice with large objects.”

“Easy-peasy,” Vic jested, “since you can use your teeth. Now, open wide...”

The blond started laughing so hard that he had to set down his sandwich.

As he lifted it again and wedged a corner of the sarnie into his mouth, a flash went off, and Justin looked up to see Debbie grinning as she set down the Polaroid camera.

“Another one for our collection,” the redhead declared, motioning toward the fridge.

Justin had to chew for a full minute before he could exclaim, “This is fucking good!” his tummy rumbling in anticipatory agreement.

“Why are you so surprised?” Vic chuckled. “Sis used freshly baked ciabatta, layering the bread with leftover turkey and ham, tomato, lettuce, onion, and provolone.”

Harley paused in pecking at his birdseed, chirping, “ _Hello, Jushun!_ ” making the blond giggle in surprise and boosting his mood.

“Did you pick that up from Gus?” he inquired, clapping in approbation.

“ _Hello, Jushun!_ ” the budgie repeated, preening and ringing the bells on his cage.

The older man coughed. “I may have practiced with him a time or two.”

“That’s so sweet,” Debbie cooed. “Gussy and Harley love their ‘Jushun’.”

After swallowing a forkful of green beans, the teenager remarked, “I get such a kick out of the way the little tyke - and now Harley - say my name. It’s a heckuva lot better than what I’ll hear come Monday at St James. I can’t believe the Thanksgiving break has disappeared so quickly,” he mourned.

“Kiddo, if the detectives’ intervention doesn’t improve matters with those bigoted bastards, what about taking the GED and getting out of that hellhole early?” Vic suggested.

“Yeah,” Debbie chimed in, “wouldn’t good scores on those equivalency tests, together with your stellar grades from St James, be worth as much as a high school diploma?”

“I don’t want to give the homophobic pricks the satisfaction of quitting before I graduate,” Justin stated, his chin jutting out stubbornly. “Not all the art schools I’m interested in accept the GED anyhow, or if they do, they don’t really rate it as equal to a diploma, which would give other applicants an edge over me. I’d be doing myself a disservice not to get that diploma - as long as I can hold out against the bullies that is,” he finished with a bitter laugh.

“We’ll have your back, Sunshine, no matter what you do,” Debbie asserted.

“Yep, along with the two detectives,” Vic concurred. “I was pleasantly surprised by what a decent sort of bloke that Horvath seems to be. Looks like you’ve found yourself a good mentor in that one, and Sis a fine beau.”

Deb flushed and muttered, “Pshaw. We’ll see.”

The teen grinned slyly. “He’s getting on like a house on fire with Kiks; he brought you flowers; and he’s willing to take you on a date with the whole family tagging along. What more do you want?”

“He didn’t get rattled by the having dinner with the whole crazy family, either,” Vic interjected. “From that lovely shade of pink your face has turned, I’d say you’re smitten.”

“Time will tell if the man’s really a bit of alright or not,” Debbie mumbled, her face pinkening further. “He is off to a good start, though.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the trio concentrated on eating, with Harley eliciting bursts of laughter from the diners as he rang the bells on his cage and alternatively squawked, “ _Hello, Jushun. Come eat._ ” and “ _Hellooo, Briaaan. Come eat._ ”

Justin managed to fit in two of the massive sarnies along with two heaping servings of the other fixings, before finally calling it quits. “I’m stuffed,” he moaned, pushing his chair back from the table.

“No pie for you then, _amor meus_?” Debbie queried roguishly.

“Fuck,” Justin muttered, reddening, “you _did_ catch that.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you during dinner yesterday,” Debbie revealed, “so I didn’t mention it. However, those _were_ two of the easiest words in the poem to translate.”

“What’s it mean, exactly?” Vic interposed. “I know it’s something about ‘love’, but since Mama didn’t insist that I go to catechism like she did with you, Sis, I never picked up much Latin.”

“I can remember her cursing that you wouldn’t have turned out gay if she’d just sent you to Sunday school,” Debbie ruefully commented.

“Fat lotta difference that would’ve made,” Vic retorted. “I’d just have lusted after Padre Beneventi.”

“That priest did have a very fine tush,” Debbie nodded, a reminiscent gleam in her eyes.

“The meaning?” Vic impatiently reminded her.

“My love,” Debbie translated. “Sunshine called Brian ‘my love’.”

“Mel must’ve figured it out too,” the teen groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“I’m pretty sure she did,” Deb readily agreed, “but the bulldyke would never give Brian _a swelled head_ by telling him that.

As mortified as he was, Justin couldn’t resist joining the siblings in laughing uproariously at the terrible joke. All three of them then found just enough space for slices of pumpkin and apple pie.

 

Not long after they’d finished eating, Vic and Justin were walking rapidly toward Babylon, snowflakes falling from the once again leaden sky. A slightly out-of-breath Vic quipped, “Maybe I should join you on one of those platforms, Sunshine, so I can work off the leftovers I’ve just gobbled down.”

Justin glanced at the man who was a cross between a surrogate father and a fun uncle. He couldn’t see much of Vic at the moment - just the reddened tip of his nose peeking out from above the folds of his scarf and his pale blue eyes gleaming beneath a knit cap. “You ready to strip down to your skivvies?” he teased. “You’d certainly draw a lot of attention.”

“No one would be attracted to a washed-up has-been like me,” Vic denied, “especially once they find out I’ve got Aids.”

“Bullshit,” Justin remonstrated. “You’re a good-looking guy, and as long as you take precautions, there’s no reason for anyone to fear they’d get the disease.”

“Finding someone who’s willing to take the chance would be nearly impossible,” Vic countered, “unless they’re HIV positive themselves.”

“You’ll sure as fuck never know if you don’t put yourself out there and give it a try,” the teen chastised. “Wait a moment,” he  requested when they were just short of the entrance to the club, unwittingly stopping under the street light where Brian had once picked him up. When he looked around and recognized the spot, he almost giggled; the lamp post had brought him good luck that night, so perhaps it would do the same for Vic. The positive karma would have to follow them into the club, though, since the older man’s balls would turn blue if he waited out here.

“Did you forget something?” Vic queried, backtracking when he realised Justin was no longer next to him.

“No, but you did,” Justin countered, pulling out his wallet and extracting the ID card for Babylon that Vic had given him a couple months earlier. “Just in case you’re carded,” he joked as he handed it to Vic.

“The clubs are for young men,” Vic objected, but he sounded unsure to the blond.

“You’re only as old as you feel,” Justin insisted. “Besides, you don’t want to miss out on the chance to watch me shake my _thang_ ,” he teased, swivelling his hips and thrusting his pelvis forward.

“Oh, I might joke around with you at home,” Vic allowed, “but I could never really perv on you, Sunshine… not when you’re the son I never had.”

Justin stared at him in shock before sputtering, “But you’ve got Michael. Brian too.”

“I love both of them,” the older man affirmed, his voice rather choked up, “but I lived in New York, so I wasn’t around that much when the two were growing up. Even though I missed your formative years too, you’re the one I’m sharing a house with, the one who’s become my surrogate son.”

“Blasted allergies,” Justin sniffled, wishing he’d had the forethought to stuff a few tissues into his jacket. The teen finally gave up on his efforts to rein in his emotions, instead throwing his arms around Vic and vowing, “And you’re like the dad I never really had. Thanks for being there for me.”

“Watch the snot,” Vic weakly joked. “I just got my overcoat back from the dry cleaner’s.”

As he pulled back, Justin reflected that Vic must’ve spent more time around Brian than he was willing to admit. That response would be typical of the brunet, and Justin would have bet the expression was one he’d picked up from Vic. Chuckling at the man’s sally, he asked, “Even if you’re not looking for a hookup, there’s no reason you can’t enjoy a drink, right? Plus, there are lots of other go-go boys for you to ogle.”

“Well…” Vic dithered, shuffling his feet, “...I have been thinking I ought to meet this Smythe fellow and impress on him how important it is that he ensure your safety.”

The teen barely suppressed a groan of dismay as he moved away from the street light. How the fuck had they gone from Vic having some fun to him nannying Justin? He couldn’t say anything, however, for fear he’d discourage Vic from ever setting foot inside the club.

“Hey up, Oscar,” he greeted the bouncer. “I’ve got the other ‘Vic Grassi’ with me tonight.”

“Are you sure you’re old enough to get in?” the doorman jested with Vic. “You’d better show me your ID.”

Vic dutifully pulled out the card that he’d just restored to his wallet.

“1952 must’ve been quite the year, producing gents like the two of you,” Oscar acknowledged with a twinkle in his eyes. “Go on in.”

“Ehm, Oscar, I wanted to ask you something,” Justin mentioned, suddenly feeling a bit bashful as he stalled in the doorway. “There’s a chance I’ve acquired a stalker,” he explained, hastily amending, “a _small_ chance,” when the bouncer’s eyes narrowed.

“What Justin wants to know,” Vic intervened, “is whether you’d walk him home at the end of the night, since you both go off shift at the same time. You’d be doing him, me, and my sister, Debbie Novotny, a big favor.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” the teen continued, shifting from foot to foot, “but Debbie’s house is only a few blocks away.”

“Debbie…” the doorman muttered, mulling it over, “you mean the redhead from the diner?”

“That’s the one,” Vic confirmed.

“I would’ve done it for you anyway, Justin,” Oscar admitted, “but I’m even happier to help if it means looking out for one of Deb’s boys. She made me feel at home when I first arrived in the Pitts, so I’m glad to be able to return the favor.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” the blond beamed up at the muscular bloke. “I’d better get changed so I’m not late for my shift.”

“You do that,” the bouncer replied. “I expect to hear all about this potential stalker when I walk you home later, mind you. In the meantime, I’ll pass the word to the other bouncers and bartenders to keep an eye on you and to be on the lookout for trouble.”

Vic clapped the doorman on the arm in appreciation, before they entered the club. “Where will I find Smy-” Vic began, only to be cut off when a young man, his eyes dilated, jumped down from one of the platforms, landing directly in front of them.

“Whoa, Sven,” Justin caught the dancer before he toppled into him and Vic, hissing, “maybe you ought to cut back on the pills.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Sven slurred, as he almost overbalanced in the other direction. “As long as I’m dancing, anyroad.”

“Was there some reason for the exuberant greeting?” the blond inquired as the other dancer laboriously hauled himself back onto the platform.

“Huh?” Sven frowned down at Justin, before his puzzlement cleared and he informed the blond, “Arthur was looking for you. Said you should stop by his office before you change.”

“Shit,” Justin worried as he hurried up the stairs toward the owner’s office, Vic on his heels. “I hope I haven’t already made a bad impression.”

“Rather the opposite, lad,” a British-accented voice announced, as Smythe opened the door wider to let him in. “Can I help you, sir?” he inquired in a sharp tone when Vic made to follow Justin into the office.

“Vic’s like a father to me,” the teen quickly interposed, introducing the men to one another. “Vic Grassi,” he motioned toward Babylon’s owner, “this is Arthur Smythe.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Smythe stated, firmly clasping the mittened hand that Vic extended. “Please excuse the rude greeting and make yourself comfortable; I thought you were hitting on Justin.”

“I might,” Vic leered playfully at the teen, waggling his eyebrows, “if he weren’t part of my family.”

“Um, are you sure everything is okay, Mr Smythe?” the teen uneasily questioned, reverting to addressing the man formally.

“Arthur,” the manager reminded him, his eyes sparkling as he watched Vic divest himself of his outerwear.

Justin cleared his throat when Smythe’s eyes remained glued on Vic.

That succeeded in bringing Arthur out of his reverie, the man blinking at the blond and declaring, “Right. I’d already been thinking of moving you to the bartop, and what I heard earlier this evening cemented my decision.”

“What you heard?” Justin echoed.

“The rumors that someone may be stalking you,” Smythe explained. “I don’t want you to be in danger, young man, so that confirmed my plan to have you dance on the bar, where we can keep a close eye on you.”

“I’d like to dance up there,” the blond agreed, “but don’t the other dancers have seniority?”

“This is a business, and my decisions are for the good of the business,” Arthur declared. “It’s up to me as to who dances where. If I didn’t think you’d cut it on the bar, I’d leave you on the platform and have you watched there.”

“Hmm,” Justin mumbled doubtfully. He’d been hoping to dance on the bar eventually, but he didn’t want the other go-go boys to resent him.

“Your first night on one of the regular platforms was a test to see how well you would do,” Arthur further elucidated. “I was impressed you got as much in tips as you did; the patrons of this establishment have to make more of an effort to ‘tip’ the platform dancers than the bar dancers. Tell me, weren’t you a trifle disappointed by your take last Saturday?”

“Uh, yeah,” Justin confessed, “but I figured it’d be a while before I’d be allowed to dance on the bartop.”

“Even though you were relegated to a platform, you still danced your arse off, shimmying and shaking it in front of all those horny fags,” Smythe observed. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed - MacAllister, my assistant manager; Freddie, the bartender you’re acquainted with; and a couple of the other dancers commented on it. I’m therefore convinced that having you dance on the bar will be a win-win for both of us - more tips for you and more money spent on alcohol for the club.”

“The boy’s got a helluva work ethic,” Vic chimed in. “School, his job at the diner, and this side gig - somehow he fits it all in. I don’t want some obsessed fag to ruin it for him.”

“We’re in agreement, Mr Grassi,” Smythe stated gravely. “We’ll take every precaution possible.”

“Ehm, I already asked Oscar if he’d walk me home,” Justin revealed. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

“You preempted my own suggestion,” Arthur chuckled, before allowing, “which I should’ve expected from a young whippersnapper like you.”

Justin blushed but remembered his manners enough to say, “Thanks, Mr-, uh, I mean, Arthur.”

“Keep working on it. You’ll find my name trips off the tongue quite easily,” the owner advised.

The teen found it interesting that Arthur was looking at Vic as he spoke, seemingly captivated by the other man.

“I’d better change,” Justin reminded his boss.

“Hmm, yes,” Smythe absently responded. “Ask Freddie to show you where to dance.”

“Wait, I’ll go with you,” Vic interjected. “You can show me the area where you get ready for your gig.”

The manager seemed rather taken aback, insisting, “Justin’s perfectly safe here at the club.”

“You just assured me that other employees would be keeping an eye on him,” Vic commented in an even tone, although his eyes flashed dangerously. “How can they do that if someone doesn’t accompany Justin?”

“Vic,” the teen tugged on his surrogate father’s arm, “I’m sure I’ll be fine between here and the break room.”

“Not good enough,” Vic stressed.

“You’re correct,” Smythe shamefacedly admitted. “Justin, there should be at least one other employee around, no matter where you are in the club.”

“Jesus,” the teen muttered, feeling as if he were being smothered. “Is someone going to hold it for me while I take a piss too?”

“Only if your aim is off,” Arthur quipped before addressing Vic again, “Mr Grassi, after you’ve seen the lad to the break room cum changing area, would you care to join me in a libation from my personal stock?”

“Sure,” Vic responded, placing a hand against Justin’s back and propelling him out of Smythe’s office. “We can discuss _my son’s_ safety some more.”

Justin couldn’t help feeling warmed by Vic referring to him as his son. He was pretty sure he’d never hear those words pass Craig’s lips again.

“I think Mr Smythe likes you,” the lad giggled as he led the way toward the break room.

“Hmm,” Vic murmured, “I’m not sure about Smythe yet - seems like a lot of flash but not necessarily any substance. Even though someone brought the rumors about someone stalking you to his attention, he doesn’t seem to be taking it as seriously as he should.”

Justin shook his head in mock affront. “I swear, you and Deb would only be satisfied if the police were escorting me everywhere.”

“Now there’s a notion,” Vic joshed. “We could hire a rent-a-cop.”

“Fuck, no,” the blond groaned when they reached the dressing area, where another go-go boy was pulling off his clothes. “Go flirt with the bossman, okay? Malek and I will head to the bar together.”

Vic admonished, “You’ll make sure…

“....someone I know is always around,” Justin finished. “I promise. Now go get that drink.”

The teen heaved a sigh of relief as the older man vanished back into the club, before he began to hastily remove his clothes, hanging them in the locker assigned to him.

“Wassup?” the sleekly muscled, raven-haired Malek inquired, sauntering over to Justin after tightening the laces on the Nike trainers he wore for dancing. “Do you really have a stalker?”

So much for a moment without thinking about the situation, Justin mused. “Dunno,” he shrugged, slipping his feet back into his beat-up sneakers whilst casting a covetous glance at Malek’s Nikes. “I just hope the police can figure it out soon.”

“The police?” Malek paled, drawing away from the blond. “I don’t want the bobbies poking around in here.”

“Relax,” Justin advised. “They won’t care about your stash, not unless you’re dealing.”

“Like I’d be that stupid,” the other dancer sniffed in disdain as they made their way to the bar.

Glancing down at his tighty-whities, the teen wished he could afford a pair of the cherry-red, pinstripe-patterned Dolce & Gabbana briefs Malek was wearing. He consoled himself that while the dude had an adequate package, it didn’t make the scrap of fabric bulge outward - unlike the way Justin’s cock swelled the pouch of his otherwise boring white briefs.

 

“Go, Baby!” hooted Emmett a few minutes later, clapping as Justin gyrated his hips on the side of the bar opposite where he, Ted, Michael, and Brian were standing.

“Christ, but that kid has one fine package,” Ted opined admiringly, as he sipped at his shot of Beam.

“Front and back,” Em agreed, whistling in appreciation at the blond’s moves.

Brian, who was leaning against the bar a little ways down from the others, couldn’t fault his friends’ taste. He slid down a little so he could see the teen better; unfortunately, the go-go boy who’d been shaking his flat ass in the adman’s face pranced over so that he was once more directly in front of the brunet. When a withering glare had no effect on the dancer, Brian turned so that his back was to the bar.

“High school student to go-go boy within a coupla months,” Michael stated contemptuously. “It must be the fastest downward spiral ever recorded.”

“Uh, honey, he’s _still_ a high school student,” Emmett observed. “It’s not like he dropped out.”

“He will soon,” Michael asserted. “Everyone knows the only way you get to work the bar is if you blow the boss.”

“Really?” a voice inserted drily. “Strange that _I_ didn’t have to do that.”

“Huh?” Michael asked, looking around in confusion.

“I’m right in front of you,” Freddie, the muscular barkeep, retorted.

“Oh, well, duh, I didn’t mean _you_ ,” Michael dismissed Freddie. “Bartenders do an honest day’s work, unlike _dancers_.”

“The go-go boys work just as hard as we barkeeps do,” Freddie averred. “And no way did any of the employees here at Babylon go down on the boss in order to get a job. Mr Smythe wouldn’t hold onto the club for long if that were the way he did business.”

“I’ve heard it from more than once source,” Michael declared self-righteously. “He’s probably let the dude fuck him too; that ass must be looser than a goose’s.”

“Of course, you’d think it’s ‘loose’ if you’ve been having at a ‘goose’ again,” Ted wryly interjected.

“What?” Michael stared slack-jawed at the accountant.

“Sweetie,” Emmett recommended, “I think it’s time for the birds and bees talk - goose and gander style.”

“What?” Michael reiterated.

“The female is a goose, and the male is a gander,” the tall queen explained, flapping his arms dramatically. “There’s no wonder it was ‘loose’ if you were fucking a ‘goose’.

“No, not me. I didn’t- What?” Michael spluttered as his friends, Freddie, and everyone around them erupted in laughter.

Once the merriment had finally died away, Michael looked Brian, stubbornly asserting, “I still say it’s a good thing you dumped that irresponsible little tramp when you did.”

“Regardless of my opinion about this dance gig,” Brian replied offhandedly, “the kid’s not taking any handouts. He’s working his ass off - _dancing_ ,” he emphasized.

“Yeah,” Freddie concurred, turning his head to admire the lithe blond on the other side of the bar. “Justin doesn’t need to give head to get ahead. If anything, the fags in here are lining up to suck _his_ dick.”

Michael curled his lip, criticizing, “What do you know?”

Before Freddie could retort, a jovial voice distracted Michael, “Honeybun! Sorry I’m so late. I had to stay at the office to treat one of the Ironmen, who’s having trouble with a slipped disc.”

Brian didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to see the chiropractor. He’d been about ready to punch Michael, even though the man’s invective wasn’t any more vituperous than normal where Justin was concerned.

Frustrated that he couldn’t bring himself to trick, Brian was more on edge than usual, although he was doing his best to feign boredom and nonchalance. He’d started toward the backroom more than once, an eager trick in tow. Each time, however, he’d halted as he’d neared the portal to what had been his personal nirvana - remembering what had happened the last time he’d been in Babylon’s backroom - and had ended up waving away a disappointed bloke. One of them had even offered to blow him right there on the dance floor, but Brian had declined since that was a surefire way to get booted out of the club.

Ted sighed as he sidled down the bar to Brian. “This is the second time they’re playing ‘In the Navy’. We know we’re gay; they don’t have to constantly remind us.”

Brian nodded and had to grin when he glanced at Justin. For the first time since he’d started surreptitiously watching the teen, he looked a bit awkward, simply swaying in place as he listened to the opening lines of the song. Evidently deciding he couldn’t move in a sexy fashion to the lyrics, the blond began throwing in some ridiculous moves - squatting down and Cossack-kicking, doing a funky hop-pirouette on one foot, pretending to salute the customers with his dick, and generally making a right fool of himself.

“If I tried that, I’d either break a leg or pull a muscle,” Ted stammered, gawking at Justin.

“Hmm,” Brian noncommittally responded, unwilling to admit that he wouldn’t fare any better. He’d never be so foolish as to imitate the blond, knowing even groin-to-groin contact wouldn’t enable him to dance like that.

When ‘In the Navy’ ended but then immediately began to play again, he and Schmidt shot each other what-the-fuck looks. Ted gestured toward Justin, and the adman looked in the teen’s direction, noting that a crowd had gathered around that side of the bar, with the fags pushing and shoving at each other as they attempted to slip bills under either the waistband or the leg elastic of the brat’s hideous white briefs. Apparently, his dance improv was a big hit with the horny denizens of Babylon.

Brain scowled but, realizing the accountant was watching him, hastily smoothed his features into a mask of indifference. Ted quirked an eyebrow at him but thankfully remained silent. As Justin performed some more zany moves - was that a variation on the cancan? - the brunet mulled over what Vic had said while they had polished off a couple of doobies on Debbie’s stoop the day before.

Was Vic right? Would he be missing out if he just let the teen go? Maybe it would be worth it to try and reconnect with Justin to some extent, even if Brian couldn’t trust him. He was still pissed off at the kid for leaving the loft unlocked - and allowing his personal space to be violated - but he wasn’t as angry as he’d been three weeks earlier. In fact, he was surprised at how long he had managed to hold onto the anger, as he wasn’t normally one to hold a grudge. He had also never been robbed before, though. Brian supposed he could look at it as a learning experience for both the teen and himself. It was doubtful that Justin would ever be so irresponsible again, and certainly, Brian would never be so foolish as to once more leave the blond alone in his loft.

The ad exec’s brow furrowed as he realized the teen would actually have to be _in_ his loft for that to be a possibility. Well, why not? he mused. Christ knew, he was already spending an inordinate amount of time looking out for the brat - he might as well reap some benefits too. Especially since he’d done something so out of character as talking to Smythe earlier this evening regarding the rumors about someone stalking Justin, all because he had felt a bit bad about the fiasco resulting from the mattress auction. He wasn’t convinced the owner of Babylon had taken the matter as seriously as he should, so he planned to follow up with the man later tonight.

Although the teen would never know about Brian’s ridiculously protective behavior, there was no reason Justin couldn’t repay him with a shag, was there? The muppet did know how to fuck - after all, he’d been taught by the best - so there’d be no harm in having him over solely for that purpose. The teen would also be reminded that he couldn’t find better than Brian Kinney, and he’d surely drop _Bob_ like the pathetic wannabe stud he undoubtedly was. There was one other reason to try and mend fences with Justin, although Brian was hesitant to fully acknowledge it; the stud wouldn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder since he’d be _safe_ with Justin. Safe and an easy solution to his blue balls, he concluded.

With that settled to his satisfaction, Brian motioned to Freddie for another Beam, letting out a long-suffering sigh when Ted raised an eyebrow and holding up two fingers to indicate he wanted two shots. Then he amended his order to, “And a cosmo for the dancing queen,” when Emmett sashayed up to him.

He glanced around for Michael and Dr Dave, but shrugged when Emmett yelled over the loud music, “They’re on the dance floor.”

The three men toasted each other, Emmett lifting his glass toward Justin and enthusiastically yelling, “Keep shaking that delectable derriere, Baby!”

   

By the end of the night, Justin was heartily sick of ‘In the Navy’, which he’d danced to seven times. “What was up with playing that fucking song every time I was dancing?” he groused at the deejay, when he ran into the dude in the break room.

“Guys kept coming up to my booth and requesting the song,” Dashonte explained. “Once I saw your kooky dance steps, I figured out why the tune was suddenly so much more popular than ever before,” he teasingly clarified.

“Fuck,” the teen muttered. “Hey, could you maybe lose that song in case anyone asks for it tomorrow night?” he suggested hopefully.

“No can do,” the disc jockey replied. “The bossman wants me to keep the customers happy so they’ll spend their money on drinks. You shaking your ass to ‘In the Navy’ makes them happy.”

Justin grunted in understanding as he pulled on his clothes. He _had_ earned some awfully good tips dancing to that piece of drivel, so maybe he should come up with some different steps to make the song more tolerable and keep the moolah flowing.

“Hey, wait,” a voice called as the teen exited the break room with Dashonte, heading to the bar to wait for Oscar.

Justin glanced at the unfamiliar man. “Yeah?” he inquired of the stranger once he’d reached the counter, where Freddie and Rico were tallying the cash in the registers.

“I just love the way you move... your body,” the man gushed. “You’re so fucking hot.”

“Uh, thanks,” the blond replied uneasily, trying to get a better look at the guy. A good part of his face was hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck, his chin tucked into the folds of fabric.

“Could I get your autograph?” he inquired, thrusting a copy of _Out_ magazine at the teen.

“Mr Taylor doesn’t give autographs,” a deep voice announced, Oscar suddenly materialising next to Justin.

“Really not?” the bloke asked, disappointment lacing his voice. When Justin shook his head in agreement with the bouncer, he then rhapsodised, “Well, in that case I would totally settle for you autographing my torso in jizz. Do you think we could hook up sometime so you could do that?”

“Bugger off,” the bouncer growled, advancing threateningly toward the man.

“Just think about it,” the autograph seeker called as he scurried toward the exit.

“Jesus, what a fucking nutcase,” Justin muttered.

“I wish I’d gotten a better look at him,” Oscar commented. “I probably shouldn’t have chased him off like that. I can’t give the police much of a description as it is.”

“Do you think he could be the stalker - if there actually is a stalker?” the teen questioned, rubbing his hands up and down his arms in an effort to dispel the chill engendered by his encounter with the creep.

“Maybe. He could just be a fucking weirdo,” the bouncer replied. “Let me know if he approaches you again, okay?”

“I will,” Justin vouched, suddenly feeling drained not only by the rumor-fueled tension but also from having worked a full shift at the diner, followed by the dance gig. The blond was going to have to reprise the whole thing tomorrow, and he considered for the first time that this might not be as easy as he’d expected.

As Oscar and Justin walked out of Babylon just after two a.m., a patrolman pulled up in his squad car. Rolling the window down, he inquired, “Are you Justin Taylor?” When Justin nodded in the affirmative, a little worried at what the copper wanted with him, the man continued, “I’m Officer Reyes. Detective Horvath arranged for me to pick you up and drive you home after your shifts.”

“There’s no need,” Oscar remarked in a wary tone, approaching the cop car. “I’ve already agreed to accompany Justin when he finishes work on the weekends.”

“It’s not out of my way at all,” the policeman cheerfully insisted. “I go near his house on my way back to the precinct.”

“The lad’s in good hands with me,” Oscar boasted, flexing his biceps beneath his skimpy denim jacket. “It’s already pre-arranged that I’ll see him home.”

Reyes grinned at the bouncer, flexing his own muscles beneath his uniform. “He’d be safe with me too. Safer, perhaps, since I have a car.”

Justin, who was completely made up that Carl was so concerned about his well-being, wanted to laugh at the macho display; however, he elected to end the discussion by assuring the bouncer, “I’ll be fine, Oscar. Detective Horvath’s a friend.” and climbing into the patrol car on the passenger side.

“See,” the patrolman joked, “a warm car trumps slogging home through the snow every time, even with a companion like you.”

Given the way the two brawny men were eyeing each other, Justin wondered if Officer Reyes might be gay. If so, the poor bastard probably didn’t get many opportunities to be himself, the blond reflected, not in the conservative police force.

“Can I give you a lift too?” the patrolman asked Oscar. “I might have to put some handcuffs on you, though, since people in the back have to be cuffed.”

The bouncer eyed the caged back of the squad car appraisingly before begging off, “That’s an enticing offer, but I live in the other direction.”

The teen was grateful that Officer Reyes was giving him a ride; it would have been a real imposition on Oscar for the genial bouncer to walk him home.

“I’ll pick you up at the same time tomorrow,” the patrolman informed Justin when he dropped the teen off in front of Deb’s house a few minutes later, waiting until Justin had let himself in before waving and driving off.

The blond hoofed it up the stairs, pulling off his clothes and tossing them about helter-skelter before climbing into the bed and promptly falling asleep.

As the patrol car was pulling away, Brian was just exiting Babylon. He’d had another conversation with Smythe about Justin’s safety, his concerns somewhat allayed when he’d learned that Oscar would walk the teen home at night. The brunet had intended to ask Justin over for a fuck but had ditched that plan, since the teen had already left. He’d have to engineer another opportunity, maybe even the next night.

Brian’s worries flared up again when he encountered the bouncer on the sidewalk, staring after a vehicle which must’ve just pulled away from the club. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped at the bouncer. “You’re supposed to be walking Justin home.”

“Some detective sent a patrol car to pick up Justin,” Oscar explained. “The lad said he knew the detective, so I figured everything was copacetic.”

“Detective Horvath?” Brian queried sharply.

“Yeah, that was the name,” the bouncer agreed.

“The brat’ll be fine then,” Brian confirmed. “He does know the bobby.”

With a halfhearted wave at Oscar, the brunet stropped off toward his loft, frustrated at having to rely on his hand and his glass dildo for another night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget our FanDoc: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing


	24. Chapter 24

Justin staggered into the kitchen on Saturday morning, so dead on his feet that even a quick, cold shower had failed to revive him. Had he been wrong to tell Daph that he could easily get by on little sleep? he wondered, having trouble even just putting one foot in front of the other. Then again, he’d gotten less than four hours of shuteye the night before, and that had been after a full shift at the diner and dancing at Babylon. He had every right to feel groggy, he decided.

The teen propped his elbows on the counter and rested his chin in his hands while he waited for the coffee maker to finish percolating, his eyes drifting closed. Justin remembered a different morning about a month ago, and a slow smile spread across his face as he recollected Brian’s idea of breakfast and the avant-garde use for his MomentoItalia table.

Brian had woken him early on a school day that morning, insisting that as they didn’t have the energy to fuck the night before because they’d passed out after getting home from Babylon, Justin was obliged to take care of his needs. Justin had been a little pissy because he wasn’t used to a six o’clock wake-up call, but once Brian had told him what he had in mind and seduced him with a couple long and dirty kisses, he’d found himself excited at the prospect of an early morning fuck.

“You sure this is going to hold up?” he had asked his lover as the brunet deposited him atop the modern but flimsy-looking table.  

“Of course it will,” Brian had smugly reassured him. “I sure as hell paid enough money for it.”

“Yeah, but did you tell the designers how you planned to use it?” Justin inquired doubtfully. “I bet the specs didn’t take this kind of activity into account.”

Brian had shaken his head, smiling fondly at Justin. “It’s gonna hold up,” he promised, leaning in for a kiss and pushing Justin back to lie down in the process. “You’ll see.”

“Um, okay,” the teen had acquiesced, hoping he wouldn’t end up on the floor.

Brian bit at the blond’s lip, grunting distractedly, and soon Justin could feel his lover’s hand worming its way underneath his sleep tee.

“Mmm,” he mumbled in pleasure as the brunet’s fingers trailed upward, pausing to tug at his nipple ring. A few moments later, Justin obligingly lifted his shoulders off the table so Brian could remove his t-shirt, goosebumps immediately forming on his skin. “’s cold,” he murmured.

“You’ll warm up,” his lover grinned down at him unrepentantly.

“Hmm,” Justin smiled lewdly, wiggling his arse on the smooth surface. “I thought you were gonna warm me up?”

“That’s the idea,” the brunet concurred, bending over to claim another kiss and running his hands down Justin’s sides, causing the blond to twitch at the tickling sensation.

He giggled as Brian’s destination was revealed, the brunet pulling at the white briefs he’d worn to bed. “These tighty-whities have got to go,” he teased.

“You like my tighty-whities,” the teenager insisted with a pout. “They show off my package. Just imagine if it was all hidden behind some ugly pattern.”

“I like you even better without them,” Brian smiled, waggling his eyebrows and palming Justin’s cock through the cotton. “Lift your arse, would’ya?”

Justin did as he was told, giving his pelvis a good swivel for show. “Like this?”

“Mhmm,” his lover hmmed, pulling the underwear off and tossing them aside, before leaning down and blowing a warm breath across Justin’s cock.

The teen shivered, although not from the cold. “Do that again,” he requested.

Brian smirked before ducking his head even lower and giving Justin’s member a brief lick. Only then did he blow across the wet patch of soft skin.

“Fuck!” Justin shouted, his hips bucking as he tried to follow Brian’s mouth. “More,” he begged.

His lover pecked his hip teasingly. “More of what, Sunshine?”

The increasingly desperate blond gestured toward his groin and his distended, purplish erection. “There,” he growled. “Put your mouth there.”

Brian pressed his lips softly right at the crease of Justin’s thigh. “Here?”

“Up and to your-” Justin paused as he tried to figure out whether his lover needed to move to the right or the left, his arousal making it difficult to think. “Left,” he guessed.

Brian snorted. “Left? You want me to kiss your hip again?” he teased, sliding his hands over Justin’s thighs. “You know, for someone so clever, you should really learn to tell your rights from your lefts.”

As anxious as he was for Brian to pay attention to his straining manhood, the teen couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m ambidextrous, remember?” he giggled. “So it doesn’t usually matter.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you start taking driving lessons,” Brian snarked, before finally turning his attention to what really mattered and kissing the head of Justin’s hardness.

“Mmm,” Justin purred, ignoring the brunet’s snide remark. “So good,” he moaned as his lover started swirling his tongue around the glans of his engorged cock.

“Was that what you wanted?” Brian inquired, raising his head and peering at the teen through his eyelashes.

“Why’d you stop?” Justin complained, his impending release curtailed.

“A blow job would hardly test the durability of this table,” the brunet replied with a wicked leer.

The teen wanted to scream at Brian to get a move on as his lover slowly unbent, stretched, and sauntered over to a bowl on the kitchen counter to retrieve a condom and lube.

“Hard and fast or slow and easy?” the brunet queried, acting as if they had all the time in the world.

Justin smiled. “I suggest hard and fast if you want to make it to Ryder on time, Stud,” he told the older man.

“Hmm, I think you lack patience, Sunshine,” Brian commented as he ran his hands along the blond’s legs, “but I suppose I can save that lesson for another day.”

“You’re going to have to if you plan on shagging me anytime this century, Bri,” Justin exclaimed, a touch of desperation entering his voice.

“Tsk, tsk,” Brian chided, torturing the teen by slowly covering his straining member after opening the condom package. “It doesn’t have to be quite that fast.”

Justin gyrated his hips, grabbing onto Brian as soon as his lover was back in reach. “Just come here and fuck me finally,” he demanded. “One would think you didn’t want to with how much you’re stalling.”

“I’m not going to fuck you without prepping you first,” Brian reprimanded the eager young man, again moving at glacial speed as he ran the tip of one lubed finger around Justin’s opening, before adding another finger and ever so gradually pressing in.

“Ah,” Brian’s ministration punched a breath out of Justin. “At least be quick about it,” he asked of his lover. “Or I’m gonna take matters into my own hands.”

“ _Quick_ or _fast_ \- you’re a bright lad, so you should know those are synonyms that won’t help you reach your goal.” Brian grinned down at squirming blond, his hands on Justin’s hips preventing the teen from sliding closer to his dick. He then boasted, “There’s no way you can take charge right now - quite the predicament you’re in, I fear.”

Justin almost growled. “I bloody know those are synonyms!” he complained. “And if you think I can’t take charge while lying spread-eagled on my back, you don’t know me,” he finished, his eyes sparkling.

“Prove it,” the brunet dared him.

Sitting up swiftly, not heeding the two fingers buried in his ass, Justin reached out to wrap his fist around his lover’s cock. Squeezing the hardness firmly, he whispered into Brian’s ear, “If you don’t get on me right now, I’ll make you come before you even make it into my ass. How’s that?”

The older man grunted, “Aaah!” clearly struggling to control himself. “I’m not going to give in,” he finally gritted out, “so you’d better let go if you truly want me to fuck you, you little brat.”

Justin pumped his fist over Brian’s length, adding a little twist at the end. “I’m quite content to jerk you off and then fuck myself on our little glass friend once you leave for work,” he lied. “Is that what you want?”

“Uh-huh,” Brian scoffed, his tensed muscles showing the effort he was exerting. “I haven’t forgotten I’m your ride to school, little boy. Or were you thinking of playing hooky?”

“I could always take the bus,” Justin suggested nonchalantly, his hand not stopping its movements. “Now are you ready to get on with it or should I _actually_ put some effort into the handjob?”

Brian grimaced, warning, “You’d better rethink that. You’ll be late for your maths class if you have to catch the bus; more importantly, you won’t have time to play with our favourite toy because you’ll have to hoof it to the bus stop.”

Seeing he wasn’t going to win with words - a dumb assumption to begin with; Brian was a master of persuasion - Justin decided his only chance of outmanoeuvring his lover was to take action. Leaning back and sliding off the brunet’s fingers, Justin went to jump off the table. “Fine, I’ll just go ahead and-” he cut himself off with a yelp as Brian grabbed him underneath his arms and manhandled him back into position

“You’re not going anywhere, Sunshine,” his lover growled, pushing his fingers back into the blond’s heat. “Now be a good boy and take my cock.”

Since Brian was finally ready to use his God-given gift as he was meant to, Justin sighed happily. “Oh, Brian,” he moaned softly.

“We’d have gotten to this point sooner,” his lover grunted as he pushed into Justin’s snug passage, “if you’d stop being such an obstinate little shit and listen to me.”

“What?” the teen quipped on a breathy moan. “Am I supposed to heed my elders?”

“That’s not going to get you the fucking you want,” Brian threatened, his brow furrowing as he forced himself to ease out of Justin’s ass.

“Why? Does the reminder of your age make your dick go- hmf..” Justin’s bratty reply got lost in another one of Brian’s pornographic kisses.

“Not the best way to shut you up,” the brunet noted when their lips finally separated so they could heave in air, “but my dick’s otherwise occupied at the moment.” With that, he shoved in, hard.

“Ah!” Justin screamed, writhing wildly in order to adjust to the sudden intrusion. “Fuck, yeah.”

Brian smiled fiercely at the teen, gradually pulling back until only the tip of his cock remained inside, before plunging forward again. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow onto Justin’s lips.

The teen grinned back at his lover as he licked up the droplet, murmuring, “Yummy.”

“You pervert,” Brian breathed out with a surprised huff of laughter. “That’s hot.”

“Have a taste,” the teen offered, tilting his head so Brian could clearly see the moisture trickling from his hairline.

As he slammed back into the teen’s warmth, the brunet swiped his tongue along the side of Justin’s face. He then leaned in for another scorching kiss.

“Yeah!” the young man screamed, deciding it was time to demonstrate that his lover wasn’t quite as in charge as he thought. He squeezed his inner muscles, watching as Brian went cross-eyed above him.

“Gah, Jus,” the older man gasped out as his hips twitched uncontrollably. “Fuck, do that again.”

Justin obliged, squeezing even harder this time.

Brian’s pelvis thrust forward on its own again, and the brunet panted, “Oh, yeah, come on.”

“Once more,” the teen urged, also panting. “I’m almost there.”

Brian slowed down his movements immediately. “Not so fast, Sunshine, I’m not done with you yet.”

“Yes, you are,” the teen insisted as he heaved in air. He clamped down so hard on Brian’s prick that he feared for a moment that he might’ve severed it from his lover’s body. He could see Brian squeezing his eyes shut, a painful expression on his face.

“No, not yet,” the brunet moaned desperately, looking tortured but somehow managing to keep himself from coming yet. “Come on, Jus,” he begged. “Just a little longer.”

The teen almost took pity on his lover - it would be for their mutual pleasure, after all - but then he noticed the focused gleam in his lover’s eyes, revealing that the brunet didn’t want to lose their power struggle. Bracing himself on his forearms, the teen rammed himself onto Brian, his muscles tightening on his lover’s dick like a vice, while he demanded, “Fucking come, now!”

Brian almost started crying as his orgasm was torn out of him forcefully. “Fuck, fuck!” he cried, hips jerking, cock spasming, and hands shaking. “Justin,” he sobbed out. “Shit.”

The teen bared his teeth triumphantly, screaming, “Briaaan!” his head thudding down onto the table as his cock erupted, streamers of viscous liquid decorating his torso.

His lover was still trembling all over, eyes glazed. “Jus,” he croaked before slumping down over his smaller form.

Justin wrapped his arms around Brian’s shoulders, rubbing his back soothingly. “Shh, it’s ok, Bri. That was wonderful.”

“I think you killed me, Sunshine,” his lover mumbled into Justin’s chest.

The blond chuckled warmly, squeezing his lover’s nape. “You _are_ a bit of a dead weight,” he teased softly.

As the blond reached up to run a hand through his lover’s hair, he was rudely jolted back to the present when his fingers instead dipped into a mug of hot coffee. “Ow!” he shouted, shaking his hand and blinking in confusion as he realized he was leaning against the counter in Deb’s kitchen, the two siblings eyeing him keenly.

“Uh, hi?” he ventured uncertainly.

“That must’ve been some daydream - or should I say _Bob_ -dream?” Debbie cackled. “It looked like you were about to come in your pants, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, we hated to interrupt before the culmination,” Vic joked.

“Um, I didn’t- I mean, I didn’t _you know_ …” he stuttered out embarrassedly. He glanced down as inconspicuously as possible, relieved to note there were no stains on his khakis, although the cotton was tented suspiciously.

Debs tittered merrily. “Oh, we know,” she exclaimed with a suggestive raise of one eyebrow. “One might even say, we are intimately acquainted with the situation.”

The teen was too flustered to say anything else, and he became even more chagrined when the cheeky budgie chose that moment to chirp, “ _Hellooo, Briaaan_ ,” in a seemingly indelicate tone.

“Oh, shut up, you,” Justin rolled his eyes at the bird fondly.

The blue budgie bobbed its head. “ _Shut up, Baby!_ ”

“I think our Harley has heard that once or twice before,” Vic chuckled.

“I wonder why,” the blond shook his head ruefully at the little pest.

“ _Shut up! Come, come, come, Baby! Come eat!_ ” the bird continued cheerfully, babbling.

“He has you all figured out, Kiddo,” Debbie quipped. “ _Come_ and _eat_ , the two most important words for a gay teen.”

Vic grinned. “Any gay, really,” he amended. “Speaking of, I’m peckish.”

“Fuck!” Deb exclaimed, looking at the clock. “We’d better wolf something down pronto, Sunshine, or we won’t make it to the diner on time.” Winking at her brother, she inquired, “What’re you fixing for us, Vic?”

“I make a mean bowl of cereal,” the older man teased, even as he quickly went to scramble some eggs and pop a couple bagels into the toaster.

“At least that’s _one appetite_ assuaged,” Debbie jested a bit later as they walked toward the diner.

“Well, if you hadn’t interrupted…” Justin trailed off, blushing furiously as they approached the eatery.

“There’s always the men’s room,” Debbie joked as the teen held open the door for her.

“Um, I think I’ll wait till I get home,” Justin mumbled, grimacing at the thought of all the accumulated body fluids on the restroom walls.

“Probably a good choice,” Debbie agreed with a roguish wink as they donned their aprons.

Mercifully for the blond, they were soon far too busy serving customers for the redhead to twit him further.

 

  
“Fuck,” Justin muttered to himself as he stumbled, almost dropping a tubful of dirty dishes onto the floor. He was practically sleepwalking after four hours at the diner, and he still had half of his shift to go.

“Here, taste this,” the Finnish dishwasher requested, shoving an unappetizing glob of boiled spinach at the teen.

“Uh, no, thanks.” Justin averted his face and slunk around the chap, who was filling in for Fahad during the chef’s lunch break, so he could deposit the tub next to the sink.

“It’s really good,” the Finn insisted, following Justin. “I added raisins to the spinach.”

The teen felt his stomach turn. He’d be sure to vom if it tasted as bad as it smelled. He grinned, however, as he contemplated what Michael would have to say about ‘buggy spinach’. The raisins kinda did look like dead beetles. If Michael and the rest of the gang came in for brunch, as they were wont to do on the weekend, maybe he could surreptitiously add a dollop to the dweeb’s order and then enjoy his reaction…

As if his thoughts had summoned Michael, the bell jingled and the short brunet tumbled through the doorway, David evidently propelling him with a hand in the small of his back. Suddenly, Michael’s foot slipped and he skidded across the slick floor, arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to regain balance. Losing his fight with gravity, the brunet ended up on his arse right in front of the cash register.

Dr Dave hurried over to his boyfriend, loudly inquiring, “Michael, are you okay?”

Michael looked up at the chiropractor and dazedly mumbled, “Dunno.”

David’s eyes lighted on Justin, and he chastised severely, “Wet floors are dangerous. You need to mop the floor dry pronto, and in the meantime, you’d better post a warning sign.”

The teen pointed toward the door and the large, neon-yellow, A-frame sign proclaiming, ‘Caution: Wet Floor’, which had been knocked akilter by Michael’s precipitous entrance. A bit irritated by Dr Dave’s demeanor, he brusquely replied, “We can’t keep the floor dry with customers traipsing in and out. We’ve warned everyone to be careful, and there haven’t been any problems - till now.”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend that method for knocking some sense into yourself,” Brian wryly remarked as he sauntered over to Michael.

“Sweet Cheeks,” David offered, a concerned frown on his face, “maybe I should take you to the ER.”

‘Sweet cheeks?’ Ted and Brian mouthed at each other over the injured man’s head. Justin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing outright, unable to determine whether _sweet cheeks_ or _honeybun_ was a more nauseating pet name.

“I’m okey-dokey,” Michael assured Dave as his boyfriend gently helped him to his feet and led him over to a booth. “I don’t need the hospital.”

Mincing over to the booth in his leopard-print pants and high-heeled boots, Emmett squeezed in next to Michael, joking, “At least you didn’t whack your head, Honey. You can’t afford it.”

Justin bustled over with a steaming cuppa, placing it in front of Michael.

Scowling at the teen, Dr Dave snarled, “That’s the least-” before he was interrupted.

“Cool your jets, Doc,” Brian advised. “The kid’s not to blame. As far as I could tell, you were the one who ushered Michael into the diner; you must’ve nudged him a bit too hard after you opened the door.”

“Huh, you’re right,” the chiropractor acknowledged. Tipping his head toward Justin, he uttered sincerely, “Sorry.”

Warmed by Brian’s unexpected defence, the blond nodded in acceptance of David’s apology.

Debbie barrelled into the eatery at that moment, returning from her break and vociferously grumbling, “It’s fucking monkeys out there.” After removing her coat, she looked around and shrieked, “Sweetie, what happened?” The redhead rushed over to the booth, tugged Em out of his seat, and scooched in beside her son, patting him down as she checked for injuries.

“Ma!” Michael complained, “How did you even know anything happened?”

“You joking?” she raised her eyebrows. “A mother can always tell when her child is hurt.” Then she turned to glare at Brian, accusing, “What’d you do?”

“No one was at fault, Deb,” Ted hastily intervened, relating how Michael had slipped and fallen down. “It was an accident.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Brian.” Debbie excused herself. “I just know Michael would leap off a cliff after you; he wouldn’t even think twice.”

“Why the fuck would I jump off a cliff in the first place?” the adman queried.

“Because you’re just like Captain Astro! Performing feats of derring-do!” Michael enthused, making a sudden recovery from his encounter with the wet floor.

“That cartoon _wonder_ ,” Ted muttered. “He must’ve scrambled his brains jumping off one too many cliffs.”

“No shit,” Brian agreed, looking a little disconcerted to again be in agreement with the accountant.

Michael expounded for ten minutes about all of his superhero’s attributes, while everyone’s eyes glazed over. Two minutes into her son’s diatribe, Deb stood up, murmuring to Justin that she’d take care of the clamoring horde at the back of the diner.

Justin quickly bussed a couple of tables and took orders from a boisterous group of bears, returning to the gang in time to hear Brian interject, “Christ, Mikey, as long as Astro has a _big dick_ , he’s good to go. That’s the most important _attribute_ ,” the advertising exec stressed.

Emmett confirmed, “Size matters, ya know.”

“But,” Michael spluttered, “a big dick won’t help Captain Astro rescue his sidekick, Zephyr, from the evil lesbians who are holding him hostage.”

“All he has to do is whip it out and shake it at the carpet munchers,” Brian suggested. “The lezzies will run screaming in terror.”

Justin stifled a giggle, politely inquiring, “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the tuna salad,” Brian decided. “It wasn’t half bad the last time. No-”

“Hold the mayo. Wheat crackers on the side.” Justin finished, nodding and giving the tall brunet a smile. “Guava juice to drink.”

“What would you like, Honeybun?” David questioned after Emmett and Ted had both ordered the pink plate special and Dr Pepper.

The other four men winced at the endearment before quickly donning poker faces.

“Tuna salad sounds kind of good, don’t you think?” Michael piped up.

Justin groaned to himself at the notion of another Jessica Simpson debate.

“Are you sure?” Dr Dave pondered. “I was thinking of having a burger.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right,” Michael eagerly acquiesced. “That red meat protein would definitely be healthier.”

The chiropractor’s eyes crossed as he obviously tried to follow his boyfriend’s reasoning, before shrugging in what might’ve been concurrence.

The teen coughed to cover up the snicker that tried to escape; Brian and Ted rolled their eyes; and Emmett fake sneezed, emitting a foghorn-like noise.

Somehow, Justin resisted the urge to give a PSA lecture on the ‘good fat’ and ‘lean protein’ in tuna versus the ‘twenty-five to thirty percent fat’  and ‘lower protein content’ in the regular ground beef generally purchased by the diner. “A triple-decker cheeseburger, a large order of fries, and a giant Coke?” the teen rattled off.

“Good,” Michael approved with a satisfied grin.

“The same for you?” Justin asked David, quirking at eyebrow at the doctor.

“Uh, no, not quite that much for me,” the man stammered. “How about a single patty, no bun, and a salad on the side?”

“Coming right up,” the blond promised. As Justin put in the order with the Finnish cook, the teen mused aloud, “I wonder whether they’d like to try that spinach concoction.”

Justin took orders and delivered meals to other tables after serving the gang’s drinks. Shortly thereafter, he smiled mischievously when he discovered the Finn had taken the hint. “Two pink plate specials, a tuna salad, one single burger, and a triple-decker with the works,” the teen announced, setting their plates in front of the five men.

“What is that?” Michael immediately squawked, attempting to climb over Em to get out of the booth. “It’s moving!”

“Honey, what’s got your knickers in a twist?” the tall queen screeched in protest as Michael kneed him in the balls.

“There’s bugs - live ones! - in that green glop!” Michael shrieked, his hand shaking as he pointed at his plate.

Justin was giggling madly as he slowly cleared the dishes from a neighboring booth.

“It’s just spinach, Sweet Cheeks,” David noted, scooping up a spoonful and chewing it. “A little odd with the raisins, I admit, but spinach contains lots of important nutrients.”

“Why’d we get ‘beetle spinach’?” Michael yelled, still endeavouring to climb over the tall queen. “None of us ordered that!”

“It’s not so bad,” Emmett tried to both console and fend off his friend as he took a bite. “The raisins kinda add flavour.”

“Better than this pork chop,” Ted observed, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “It tastes like cod.”

“That Finnish dude must be at the cooker,” a resigned Brian noted, poking at the unappetizing green blob on his plate. “Thank fuck I ordered fish.”

As Brian contentedly ate his salad and the other boys picked at their fish-flavoured meals, Emmett excitedly asked, “Have you guys heard about what went down at Babylon a few days ago?”

“It’s not news when a trick - or ten - goes ‘down’ on Brian,” Michael guffawed, gazing adoringly at his friend.

“Whatever,” Brian intoned dismissively.

“Believe it or not, Michael, not everything is about Brian,” Ted inserted acerbically.

Jesus, the adman ruminated, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief to have the spotlight off himself, Ted was becoming damn near indispensable. He barely remembered to give the accountant an obligatory eye-roll and disbelieving smirk for his caustic comment.

“Is this about the wagers riding on the ‘long schlong contest’?” David inquired curiously.

“No! No! No!” Em bounced in his seat, clearly eager to impart the latest titbit.

“Breathe,” recommended Ted drolly, as the tall queen turned red in the face from holding in both his breath and the news.

Emmett exhaled noisily, gushing, “Backroom goss has it that a homely fag ran amok, assaulted a redhead, and that the ginger’s boyfriend then punched Mr Fugly.”

Brian stiffened, worried the rumors could stem from that demanding trick attacking him. He was beginning to feel like he couldn’t escape the bastard no matter what he did.

“Huh,” grunted Dr Dave, “I heard some guys were at fisticuffs over an attractive blond twink, but there was nothing about an assault.”

“Attractive?” Michael interjected. “Couldn’t have been the teenybopper brat then.”

Brian forcibly relaxed his rigid muscles as the chatter turned to the blond teenager. He didn’t think anyone had noticed his distress, although he avoided looking at Ted since the man had been far too perceptive of late.

“Honey,” Em shook his head at his deluded friend, “Justin’s way beyond attractive. Didn’t you see all the money those horny homos were shoving into his briefs last night?” The tall man directed his gaze toward the gorgeous blond, who was toting another tubful of dirty dishes to the kitchen, lamenting, “Baby’s gotta do something about those tighty-whities, though. They’re a disgrace.”

“Bubble butts are a dime a dozen,” Michael dissented, pouting. “Mine’s better than the twink’s, isn’t it, Boopsie?” he asked, turning to Dr Dave and batting his eyelashes at the chiropractor.

“I plead temporary insanity,” Ted murmured as the two men billed and cooed at each other. When Brian eyed him quizzically as he lifted his glass of guava juice, the older brunet clarified, “For ever being enamored of someone who calls his partner ‘boopsie’.”

Brian chuckled. Unfortunately, he had just taken a rather large swallow of juice, which caused the normally debonair man to choke on the liquid. “Shit!” he cursed when pink dots appeared on his Givenchy black silk tee.

“Anyway,” Emmett interrupted loudly, “isn’t it horrible that someone would try to assault a trick in the backroom? Babylon is supposed to be our safe space; imagine if it happened to one of us.”

Michael acquired a doubtful look. “I don’t think anything like that could happen to any of us; we could all defend ourselves against some perv.”

Ted frowned. “I think that anyone can have a vulnerable moment, Michael,” he said.

David nodded, seemingly agreeing with the accountant, but Mikey protested, “If you can’t defend yourself, you shouldn’t be going in the backroom alone. I always make sure Emmett or Brian is with me- I mean, I used to, before David, of course.”  

“Huh?” Em denied. “I don’t remember accompanying you. It shouldn’t be necessary anyhow, since there’s usually plenty of people one knows back there.”

Michael hesitated. “Eh, well, it’s not like I went often or anything,” he explained, “so I guess I usually relied on Brian.”

Since Michael had frequently tagged along after him rather than finding his own trick, Brian wanted to scoff at the man’s claims. He was half petrified, however, concerned that his friends would somehow winkle out that he’d been involved if he joined in the discussion. “Whatever,” he finally grunted.

Michael looked affronted at the cavalier dismissal, while Emmett flapped a hand at him in irritation. “Don’t act all high and mighty, Mr Kinney. You like a juicy bit of gossip just as much as any other fag.”

“It would help,” Ted caustically inserted, “if there were a little more to go on than a vague rumor of someone being assaulted in the backroom.” When the queen opened his mouth to object, Ted held up a hand and continued, “Something more than ‘a homely dude attacked a redhead’. C’mon, Em, I bet if we listened in on some of the other lunchtime conversations here in the diner, one fag would maintain that the assaulter was a redhead, while another would contend that there were five people involved in a knock-down-drag-out fight - and that they were all blonds.”

“Yeah.” Emmett beamed at Teddy, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “Isn’t hot gossip the best?”

While his friends blabbed, Brian decided a smoke might calm his nerves. He reached into his leather jacket to check for his Lucky Strike cigarettes, smiling when he looked at the familiar red-on-white logo. Whoever dreamed up that name was bloody brilliant, he thought for the umpteenth time. He wished he could come up with something equally good for his fledgling advertising firm. “AdStud,” he enunciated, hating the name just as much as when Cynthia had first proposed it; sadly it was the best suggestion so far.

“Huh?” Michael prompted. “Ad what?”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Nothing, just some bullshit Cynthia said,” he waved it off.

Ted raised a teasing eyebrow. “AdStud? Is that the name for your new company?”

“Does that mean you need to ‘add a stud’ to be successful?” Em quipped slyly.

“Fuck, no!” Michael objected. “Brian’s the studliest stud ever - no need for any other studs. AdStud,” he slowly pronounced the two syllables. “I can’t believe, though, that your blonde bimbo secretary was the one to come up such a _cool_ name for your new company.”

“It certainly is reflective of your persona,” Emmett concurred.

“Wait! I have a better name,” Michael volunteered.

“Well?” Ted prompted.

“TopAd! Isn’t that the best idea ever?” the short brunet gushed.

Brian groaned, “Unbelievable. An idea that ‘tops’ Cynthia’s…”

His childhood friend beamed.

“...for the most juvenile name ever.” the adman concluded.

Once he stopped laughing, Dr Dave consoled his pouting boyfriend, “That was brave of you to try and help your friend out.”

“What about BAKin?” Emmett suggested, grinning mischievously.

The advertising exec’s eyes narrowed as he waited for the punchline.

Once the queen was certain everyone was listening, he divulged, “It plays on your initials as well as the first three letters of your last name.” The other men didn’t look any more enlightened, so he spelled out, “You know. Brian Aidan Kinney - ‘bak in’.”

“What?” Michael squawked. “That makes it sound like Brian bottoms - like he backs into other men’s cocks.” Spittle flew from his lips as he adamantly postulated, “Brian would never, ever bottom, no matter the circumstances.”

The adman feared that the conversation was going to deteriorate into an inane argument about topping and bottoming, but he couldn’t figure out how to redirect the discussion without revealing his discomfort with the topic. “Why don’t you concern yourself with your own sex life?” he snarled at the obstinate little man.

Michael blinked at him in confusion. “My sex life is good. David tops and I bottom,” he ingenuously explained.

“Gee, that sounds exciting.” Ted yawned. “Have you ever thought about mixing things up?”

“What do you mean?” his perplexed friend inquired.

“Reverse roles,” Em clarified.

Michael stared at Emmett, gesturing between himself and the tall queen. “We’re the same,” he insisted. “Both total bottoms. You’re just more...” his voice petered out as he searched for the right expression. “Nelly,” he finally finished.

“You think I’ve never topped?” Em fulminated, an outraged expression on his face.

Oh, fuck, Brian thought to himself. This conversation was getting out of control. He did _not_ want to hear any details from the flaming queen. Fortunately, Ted came to the rescue.

“Guys,” the accountant reminded everyone, “as exciting as this sounds, we’re supposed to be helping Brian name his new agency.”

“I still think TopAd is cleverest,” Michael reiterated.

Brian heard sniggering to his right and looked up to see Justin holding a tray with a carafe of coffee, cups, saucers, and spoons. “Coffee, anyone?” the teen inquired as another giggle escaped.

“Fuck, yeah,” the adman assented. Since he hadn’t gotten a smoke, coffee was the next best thing. Caffeine had to help, right? Maybe it would jumpstart their brains enough that there wouldn’t be even more idiotic suggestions.

The others agreed that they wanted coffee, their responses ranging from, “Please, Baby” to “About time you you got your lardass over here.”

Justin poured coffee for everyone else and then waited, the carafe poised over Brian’s cup.

“What?” Brian barked in irritation. He needed that infusion of caffeine, stat.

Quirking an eyebrow, Justin asked, “Did you want me to pour the sugar for you?”

“Christ,” Brian muttered, rolling his eyes, while Ted and Emmett yucked it up at his expense. When the blond continued to wait patiently, he grabbed the sugar dispenser and shook the white stuff into his cup, grateful that using a shaker prevented his friends from counting the spoonfuls.

Next to him, Theodore quivered with laughter as the sugar reached the quarter point.

“So,” Brian queried, “what’s your suggestion?”

“Hmm?” Justin innocently responded.

“Don’t be a twat,” Brian fondly teased. “I’m sure you’ve been earwigging our conversation, so you must’ve sussed out that I need a name for my new agency.”

After removing his order pad from his apron, Justin scribbled something, tore off the piece of paper, and plunked it down in front of Brian. “Problem solved,” he declared, moving away to take orders from another table.

The adman glanced down, grunting, “Well, I’ll be damned,” before folding the paper in half and placing it in his shirt pocket.

“What-” Theodore began, clearly dying of curiosity, when he was interrupted by Michael.

“There’s no way that muppet would come up with a better suggestion than mine.” the short brunet sniffed disdainfully.

Brian grinned smugly at Ted, for once grateful for Michael’s rudeness.

His gratitude only lasted for a few beats, however, his oldest friend whining, “By the way, Brian, we never get to hang out any more. Why don’t we go to Woody’s for a beer and an afternoon game of pool?”

“Why don’t you go with Dr Dave?” he brushed Michael off. “I’m sure the doc can give you some pointers on how to play.”

“But… but, I already know how to play,” Michael spluttered.

“Sure, if your goal is to have your opponent whup your arse,” Em snickered.

“I’d be glad to give you some tips, Love Nugget,” David offered, bussing his boyfriend on the cheek.

Brian thought he might puke. What was the deal with all these nauseating endearments? When he glanced at Ted and Emmett, he caught similar looks of distaste on their mugs.

Michael pouted. “Well, but… I mean,” he stammered before ungracefully conceding, “Oh, okay, I guess.”

“Does anyone know what’s happening vis-à-vis the stalker situation?” Emmett changed the subject. “I’m worried about my Baby.”

“He’s not _yours_ ,” Brian barked. Shit, he chastised himself, he hadn’t meant to sound so possessive. He calmed down when he reassured himself that he only wanted Justin for a fuck buddy, that no one else would suspect himself of being interested in the blond.

“Of course, he’s mine,” Em pooh-poohed, flapping his hand at Brian again. “I’m his friend. How about you, Bri?” the queen asked with an impish wink. “Are you Baby’s friend?”

Predictably enough, in the adman’s opinion, Michael immediately refuted that possibility. “No! No way is Brian friends with that irresponsible, inconsiderate, insensitive, incautious, impolite, uh, i-” Michael floundered, obviously searching for another ‘i’ word, before yelling, “inhuman milksop!”

“Huh,” Ted deadpanned, “that explains the problem with my trick last night. Guy was an alien.”

Once the merriment had finally died down, Dr Dave leaned forward and enthusiastically disclosed, “That guy who’s always near the entrance to Babylon’s backroom, the blond… Tad or something like that-”

“Todd,” Emmett interrupted. “He’s a great guy.”

“If you say so,” David muttered. “Anyroad, when I ran into him, he told me that some bloke was pestering Justin to autograph his naked body in jism.”

What the fuck? Brian wondered. He barely knew Todd, but even though the man might have wagered on the mattress auction, he doubted the friendly bottom would invent such a wild accusation.

His speculations were interrupted by Michael, whose nose was scrunched up in repugnance. “Ew!” he protested, conveniently forgetting that Brian had repeatedly fucked Justin. “Who’d want to be that up-close with the blond brat’s dick?”

“Pretty much every dick except yours,” Emmett retorted.

Dr Dave shot an apologetic glance at the other men, suggesting, “Honeybun, why don’t we head over to Woody’s now? I could really use a cold one.”

“ _Briaan_ ,” Michael begged, “you should come with us. I bet there’s a trick just waiting for you to drill him in the bathroom.”

The adman barely stifled a shudder. Fuck, he mused in disbelief, was he actually developing an aversion to the word _trick_? “No can do, Mikey,” he offhandedly replied. “Something’s come up.”

The short brunet laughed happily, craning his head around to try and espy Brian’s latest target as he followed his boyfriend out of the diner.

“Shall we join them?” Em inquired of Ted, motioning toward the door.

“You aiming for another beatdown?” the accountant joked.

“I’ve been practising,” the queen riposted, “so you’d better watch out,” both men waving farewell to Brian as they continued their amicable bickering.

The adman sipped his coffee as he waited for an opportunity to flag down Justin and find out the truth behind the ‘jizz autograph’ rumor. Regrettably, the diner was hopping, and although he succeeded in getting his coffee refilled thrice over the next hour, the blond didn’t otherwise have a moment to spare as he scurried from table to table. Brian finally gave up, figuring he’d probably catch up with the teen at Babylon later. He made sure to leave a hefty tip underneath his coffee cup, before sauntering out the door.

 

In the mid-afternoon, Justin was eagerly anticipating the end of his shift at the diner. The jangling bell over the eatery’s door had him looking up to see Emmett strolling into the diner, a disgusted expression on his face. The teen groaned. Any other time, he would have been glad to see his friend, but he had a feeling Em’s arrival meant he wasn’t going to get that longed-for siesta. He shrugged in resignation as the taller man approached; at least this would give him an opportunity to find out what had happened in Babylon’s backroom. He’d only caught snippets of the gang’s discussion earlier in the day.

“Hey, Baby,” the queen greeted him, draping his arms around the blond and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Whassup?” Justin asked. “You looked like you’d bitten into a lemon when you came in just now.”

“Well, I was feeling really proud of myself for beating Teddy at pool,” the tall man disclosed.

The teen raised his eyebrows in astonishment. His friend really must have improved if he’d beaten Ted, who was the best player in the group, after Brian.

“Okay, okay,” Emmett immediately confessed. I only won one game out of five, but I came really close to winning two others.”

“That is a big improvement,” Justin acknowledged.

“I know, right?” Em bestowed one of his gap-toothed grins on the blond. “I’ll be a pro player soon.”

“Uh, not _that much_ of an improvement,” the teen chuckled.

“Probably not,” Emmett ruefully agreed. “Anyhoo, Teddy and I were enjoying a post-match beer and cosmo, when Michael and the good doctor started making out in front of us.”

Justin gazed at his friend blankly. That was hardly unusual behaviour at Woody’s.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the queen hastily continued, “I’m all for some slap and tickle, but then David started this wink, wink thing - which looked kinda like a possum with a nervous tic to me - and suggested that he and his ‘dumpling’ should engage in some ‘afternoon delight’.”

“Is there something wrong with calling a fuck what it is - a _fuck_?” the blond puzzled.

“ _Exactly_ my question,” Emmett emphasized.

“Geesh, even ‘nooky’ would be more appealing than ‘afternoon delight,” the blond stated, scrunching up his nose. “Sounds a little like a dessert, though.”

Em sighed, “Until Dr Dave and Mikey outgrow this ‘cutesy phase’, I fear we’re going to hear a lot more of it.”

“If they ever do outgrow it…” Justin muttered.

“At least while they’re wrapped up in each other, Michael’s not hankering after Brian,” the older man noted.

The teen raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Not _as much_ ,” Em amended, with Justin nodding in agreement.

“When Dr Dave and Michael started their ‘afternoon delight’ right then and there,” Emmett explained further, “I commented to Teddy that I see _plenty_ of Michael at home, so I thought I’d check out other entertainment. Teddy,” the queen chuckled, “said a nap sounded far more interesting than what was on offer at Woody’s.”

Biting his lip so that he wouldn’t blurt out that a nap also sounded good to him - it would be embarrassing to be compared to the staid, older accountant - Justin asked, “Hey, what happened at Babylon the other night that had the lot of you atwitter during brunch?”

Emmett avidly related the rumors about the assault before pouting, “I _still_ haven’t been able to figure out who was involved or if there was actually an assault in the first place - it may just have been a free-for-all. All I’ve been able to determine is that whatever went down occurred last Sunday.”

“Huh, it must’ve happened my first night dancing,” the teen grunted in a somewhat discontented tone. He felt a bit out of the loop. One night ago, when the rumor mill must have been in full swing, he’d been shaking his arse again.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie,” Emmett comforted him, “As soon as I hear anything - factual or not - I’ll be sure to pass it along to you.”

“Thanks, Em. You’re a true friend,” Justin averred with a giggle as he exchanged his apron for his jacket and scarf.

“As a _true friend_ ,” the flamboyant man declared, “it’s my duty to tell you that those boring white briefs of yours have to go. I simply _cannot_ be associated with someone who wears such horrendous underwear. Why don’t I take you shopping, Baby?”

“I don’t have the money right now,” Justin admitted as they exited the diner. “I spent most of my money on a new toy.”

“Ooh!” Emmett clapped, before executing a hop, skip, and jump, halting in front of the teen. “You have to show it to me,” he joshed, “so I can tell you whether it has the Honeycutt seal of approval.”

“If it doesn’t, I can hardly return it,” the younger man retorted drily. “I’ve already put _Bob_ to good use.” Justin wanted to kick himself when he realized he’d slipped and called the dildo by name.

“Bob?” Em immediately latched onto the name, chuckling. “ _Bob_ as in your fuck buddy, Bob?”

“Yeah,” the teen admitted, his face turning red.

The queen doubled up, laughing hysterically. “That’s priceless,” he gasped. “You were completely truthful about _Bob_ being a fuck buddy, but you sure got the gerbils working double-time in Mr Kinney’s brain as he tried to figure out how a ‘Battery Operated Boyfriend’ could’ve usurped him in your affections.”

“ _Battery Operated Brian_ ,” Justin clarified, blushing even more.

Emmett laughed harder. “I want to be a fly on the wall when Brian finds out just who his competition is.”

“Good color coordination,” Em pronounced a few minutes later as he sat on the bed in Justin’s room, examining _Bob_. “That shade of blue matches your eyes.”

Vic, who’d crowded into the bedroom behind the two younger men, concurred, “It really does, Sunshine.” Turning to Emmett, he joked in a falsetto voice, “More, _Briaaan_ . Fuuuck, yeah. Right there. Aaaaah, _Briaan_.”

“I don’t sound like that,” Justin protested, his face burning as he led the two laughing hyenas back downstairs.

There, he was greeted by Harley chirping, “ _Hellooo, Briaaan. Come, Baby,_ ” which elicited another round of laughter.

“C’mon, ragazzi,” Vic ordered, “you can help me prepare dinner so it’s ready when Sis gets home.”

 

Later, while the four of them were chowing down on _spaghetti con aglio, olio, e acciughe_ , Emmett commented, “The only time I’ve ever been able to abide anchovies is when you or Deb includes them in a pasta dish, Vic. I normally can’t stand the slippery, salty little buggers.”

Debbie cackled, “You should adore them. They taste a lot like pungently flavoured dick to me.”

“You should’ve had plenty of practise ‘grabbing hold’ by now,” Vic chimed in.

“There’s no such thing as too much practise,” Em riposted with a wide grin. “I’ll keep working on it.”

As they were finishing their meal, Justin moaned, “Ugh!” when ‘In the Navy’ started playing on the radio.

“It’s your song, Baby!” Emmett applauded wildly, his eyes sparkling. “You should’ve seen the dance steps Justin came up with,” he excitedly informed Debbie and Vic. “All the horny fags lapped it up.”

“Show us, Kiddo,” Vic requested.

“Only if you help me develop some more dance sequences,” the teen bargained. “If tonight’s anything like last night, I’ll be dancing to that damned thing at least half a dozen times.”

“If ‘In the Navy’ is that popular, you’d better devise routines for ‘YMCA’ too,” Vic advised.

“And ‘Karma Chameleon’,” Emmett recommended, humming the obnoxious tune under his breath.

Shortly thereafter, the kitchen was turned into an impromptu dance floor, all of them kicking up their heels and shaking their arses. Deb and Vic traded off with the camera so they could catch everyone in action.

“Jesus,” the redhead exclaimed, collapsing into one of the chairs at the dining table. “I haven’t danced that much since my high school prom.”

“You’d better get used to it, Sis,” Vic teased. “That detective of yours might want to squire you around the town to more than a bowling match.”

“He’s not _mine_ ,” Deb asserted, her cheeks pinkening as she tacked on, “yet.”

Justin enjoyed hearing his surrogate mum get a ribbing, thinking it was nice not to be on the receiving end for a change.

The unplanned dinner party broke up when Em declared, “I need to get home, put on my make-up, and change into my dancing togs, so I’m my usual fabulous self at Babylon tonight. I’ll see you there, Baby, okay?”

“You’re going to help with the garage sale tomorrow, right?” Debbie demanded, Emmett having avoided her earlier request while they were eating.

“Okay,” the queen reluctantly agreed, “as long as I get first dibs on any vintage clothing.”

“Deb’s already claimed Nonna’s frilly apron,” Vic said, “although you would look fetching in a pinny.”

Emmett pouted briefly before replying, “Something else then,” and disappearing with a, “Toodle-oo.”

After glancing at the clock, the teen dashed up the stairs for a quick shower before heading off to Babylon with Vic. He hadn’t gotten the nap he’d been craving, he deliberated, but at least he felt better prepared to swing his tush to ‘In the Navy’ and other similar drivel.

 

Brian was just slipping out of his Zegna shirt, preparing to turn in early for once, when someone knocked on the loft door. Cursing quietly, he figured Michael must’ve followed him home from the diner in hopes of spending the evening together - the man was like a dog with a bone when it came to his friendship with Brian. Honestly, he should’ve expected this after the way Michael’s face had fallen when Brian had told him he was going home. He really hadn’t been in the mood for company, though, his mind still reeling from the conversation at the diner.

Shrugging his shirt back on, though not bothering to button it up, he shuffled over to the door, words of dismissal for his best friend on the tip of his tongue. Sliding the heavy door open, he was genuinely startled when it wasn’t Michael he came face to face with.

“Uh,” he breathed out in surprise, blinking at the man in his doorway like an imbecile. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” the man asked, the sheepish slump to his shoulders at odds with his determined expression.

“Depends on what you want, Theodore,” Brian growled, eyes narrowing at the older man.

Ted sighed. “I know what happened to you,” he uttered quietly. “That night in Babylon, the assault Emmett talked about, I know it was you.”

Brian spluttered. “What the hell, Theodore? Are you high?”

The other man shook his head, an uncomfortably sympathetic look on his face. “I _know_ , Brian,” he insisted. “I know it was you who got assaulted on Sunday.”

“Bullshit!” the younger man roared. “There’s no way you know anything. You weren’t in the fucking backroom.” Brian paled as he realized he’d all but admitted that he was the one who’d been attacked.

“Brian,” the accountant spoke gently, “I saw you leaving the backroom that night. I was standing at the bar.”

“Well, then you didn’t really see anything,” the ad executive insisted, desperate to find a way out of the conversation. “Did you want anything else?”

“I think it would do you good to talk about it,” Ted persisted.

Brian scoffed. “There’s nothing to talk about. Now, if you don’t mind, I was about to take a shower, so unless you have anything else to say…” he drawled, motioning Ted towards the door.

A stubborn look on his face, Ted didn’t move an inch. “I’m not going anywhere,” he stated firmly. “You need a friend, and since I’m the only one who’s figured it out, you’re stuck with me.”

Sighing resignedly, Brian finally deflated. “How did you even put it together?” he asked, not meeting his friend’s eye.

“You half-staggered your way out of the backroom,” Ted explained, “and you were as pale as a ghost. If I’d been alone, I would’ve offered to help you - in spite of the ‘don’t touch me’ vibe you were giving off. Instead, I made sure Michael and Emmett’s attention was directed away from you.”

“Thanks,” Brian grunted. He really was grateful that Theodore had kept Emmett - and especially Michael - off his back.

“Then the rumors about an assault started circulating,” Ted continued, “and the time frame seemed to fit.”

“No way would that be enough for you to connect the dots,” Brian argued. “I could’ve been lurching about because I was drunk out of my gourd - which I was, as a matter of fact.”

“So what?” the older man shrugged. “You’ve been drunk _and_ high plenty of times, but you were still in charge of yourself. I’d _never_ before seen such a forlorn, devastated expression on your face, however. You looked like you couldn’t escape whatever had happened fast enough. Then, when I stopped by the loft the next night, you brushed off my concern by stating you’d had a ‘lousy blow job’.”

“More of a nonexistent blow job,” Brian admitted.

“This afternoon at the diner, you flinched when Emmett raised the subject and were utterly silent after that,” Ted elucidated. “That clinched for me that you were the one who was assaulted.”

Brian flopped down on his couch, waving a hand in the direction of his liquor cabinet. “Help yourself,” he offered, “I probably shouldn’t drink if I’m going to _talk_ \- or else I will never stop.”

“You probably don’t want to reprise that night at Babylon,” Ted allowed. “I think I’ll pass on the booze tonight, too, so I can be a good listener.”

“Probably for the best,” Brian agreed. “I already feel like a fucking girl about this, no need to start crying into our drinks on top of it.”

“Jesus, I’d be a fucking basket case if I’d been attacked,” Ted asserted. “There’s nothing _girlish_ about your reaction.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brian snarled challengingly, “I can’t even go and fuck a trick now! If that doesn’t mean I’m touched in the head, then I don’t know what would. It’s like everywhere I turn, I see the guy’s ugly mug.”

“That’s natural, I’d say,” Ted responded. “It can’t be easy to get past being assaulted.”

“Yeah,” the younger man breathed out. “Thank fuck for those two guys that intervened. I don’t really want to think about what might have otherwise happened. As I said, I feel like a damned lesbian obsessing over the whole thing. It’s not like anything serious even happened.”

“Not serious?” the stunned accountant retorted. “That was sexual assault, Brian, or at least attempted sexual assault. Your brain needs time to process it,” he advised in a rational tone, “and the only way for that to happen is to go through it again and again.”

“Well, I don’t like that!” Brian complained. “I wish it would stop, and I could just go and fuck any arse I wanted again. I’ve got the worst case of blue balls I’ve had since ninth grade.”

“I know you normally avoid repeats,” Ted commented, “but is there someone you trust enough to fuck them again? Maybe that would help you feel in control. Even if there is someone you can use for sexual relief, however, I don’t think it will completely resolve the problem. You need to relive what happened so that you can move past it.”

“Are you a headshrinker or something?” Brian snarked.

“Why do you say that?” Ted wondered. “Because I suggested fucking someone you trust?”

“That’s not exactly a long list,” Brian confessed. “I don’t fuck friends - and I’m sure as hell not gonna touch a twat.”

“How about Justin?” Ted inquired. “You seem to have established a sort of détente with him.”

“Why does everybody keep throwing Justin in my face?” Brian protested. “I can make my own life decisions, you know? Including who and when I want to fuck.”

“You just admitted you can’t do that - not right now, anyway,” the older man reminded Brian.

“I can’t fuck a random fag in a back alley; that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of thinking for myself! _I_ will decide when I fuck Justin, not you and not Vic.”

“Hmm,” Ted mused, “it sounds to me as though you’re already considering Justin as a potential fuck. Maybe,” he teased lightly, “you should listen to the combined wisdom of me and Vic.”

“Fuck off, Ted. If you have nothing rational to say, just shut up.”

The older man titled his head quizzically. “What have I said that could possibly be construed as irrational?”

Brian flapped his hand. “Just stop all this hogwash about Justin, and either start talking about something else or stop talking altogether.”

“Fine,” Ted agreed, “we can talk about something else - as long as you promise to consider my suggestion.”

“I make no promises,” Brian insisted. “Though I hope _you_ do. I need your word this whole assault thing doesn’t leave this loft.”

“As if I’d betray a confidence,” Ted objected. “Whatever we discuss stays between us. That doesn’t mean, though,” he added with a grin, “that I won’t give you more advice, even if it’s unwanted.”

“Do whatever the fuck you want, just don’t expect me to listen,” Brian shrugged, a petulant look on his face. “Now onto a different topic, Theodore, I’m serious.”

“How about you share the name that _someone_ proposed for your agency?” Ted slyly inquired.

Just then, the telephone rang, preempting the need for Brian to reply.

“Mr Kinney? Detective Horvath here,” came the voice from the other end of the line once Brian had picked up the phone.

“Yeah?” Brian curtly responded. For a moment, he was so disconcerted by his conversation with Theodore that he thought the copper was calling to say they’d caught the trick who’d assaulted him. Then he realised it was more likely Horvath had some information about Justin’s stalker, and he was just stressing himself out for no reason.

It turned out it was neither. “I have some new photos for you to look at,” the copper explained. “When do you think you’ll have time to stop by and have a look at them?”

“Tomorrow afternoon?” the adman asked. “If you’ll be around, that is.” He didn’t relish the idea of going to the detective’s office, only to have another stare-off with the man’s partner.

“Sure, tomorrow works fine. If I’m not in, Wen is for sure going to be at the station,” the copper assured him.

Brian suppressed a groan. “What’s happened anyway?” he asked. “Did some new evidence come up?”

Horvath said, “I assure you, I’ll tell you if anything new does come up. We just need you to check through another binder of photos to make sure you don’t recognise anyone.”

Brian sighed. “Great.”

After he’d hung up, Ted queried, an interested glint in his eyes, “What was that about?”

“The burglary,” Brian disclosed, “the investigation of which appears to be going nowhere.”

Ted raised his eyebrows. “What did Horvath say?”

“I get to look through more mugshots,” Brian replied, “and I may even have the pleasure of that Asian woman’s company while I do so.”

The older brunet snickered. “I still can’t get over you being afraid of a little woman.”

Brian glared at his friend. “Just wait till you meet her, Theodore. You’ll change your tune fast, I assure you.”

Ted shook his head with a grin. “So they really didn’t tell you anything new?” he questioned. “What the hell are they doing that it’s taking so long?”

“Investigations take time,” Brian parroted what he’d been told by the detective. “ _Lots_ of time, apparently.”

“Do you sometimes feel like maybe they’re not telling you everything?” Ted asked. “I mean, Horvath didn’t really explain why homicide was still interested in your case, did he? He just went all cop on us, and that was the end of it.”

“The police probably don’t want anything to compromise their investigation,” Brian begrudgingly acknowledged. “I haven’t the foggiest what they’re cooking, but I have to admit they do look competent.”

Theodore nodded. “Well, in that case, stop whining about having to look at those photographs,” he said with a smile.

Brian shrugged. “I reserve the right to be annoyed about anything,” he mumbled with a pout. “And you can’t stop me.”

Ted paused, before tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at Brian. “Huh,” he commented.

“What?”

“Nothing,” the older man waved him off. “I just thought you were Gus there for a second.”

Scoffing, Brian rolled his eyes. “Please. It’ll take years for my Sonnyboy to perfect a drama routine worthy of _me_.” Somehow or other, he reflected, Theodore had actually cajoled him into a better mood. He smirked at his friend, curious as to what he would say next.

Ted chuckled. “I hate to tell you, Bri, but your kid is already _outperforming_ you.”

“He does have a good set of lungs” was all Brian would admit. Strolling over to the liquor cabinet he pulled out the bourbon, announcing, “I think we’ve talked enough. Beam?”

“I could do with a shot… or two,” Ted replied. “But then I’d better mosey on home. Before I knew what I was agreeing to, Debbie roped me into helping out with their garage sale tomorrow. She’ll expect me to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“Hmm,” Brian reflected, “leafing through those mugshots suddenly doesn’t sound so bad.”

Later, as he was falling asleep, wrapped in a warm glow from five shots of bourbon, Brian’s thoughts turned to Justin. He was thoroughly frustrated that he still hadn’t been able to ask the teen over for a fuck. Maybe he should stop by the diner for breakfast the next morning? he pondered. Considering he ran into the brat almost every time he set foot in the eatery, he’d surely have an opportunity to issue his invitation then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spaghetti con aglio, olio, e acciughe = spaghetti with garlic, oil, and anchovies
> 
> Also, don't forget our FanDoc: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	25. Chapter 25

Brian was annoyed not to find a parking spot anywhere near the diner on Sunday morning, and slip-sliding down the slick sidewalk in his Gucci shoes until he finally reached the eatery didn’t improve his mood either. He was determined, though, to corner Justin and persuade him to come to the loft for a fuck, especially after he’d had yet another boring session with his glass dildo earlier that morning. He was beginning to despise the previously favoured toy.

When he realized that Ted’s car was parked right outside the door, he scowled. “Fucking Ted,” he muttered, kicking at a front tyre. His friend had clearly stolen Brian’s previously excellent parking karma. The brunet shoved open the door to the diner, forgetting to be cautious of the slippery floor and almost landed on his keister, like Michael had the day before.

As he mused that he probably should have been a little more sympathetic toward his childhood friend, he heard Emmett bray loudly, “Ha, ha, ha. Nice save, Bri.”

“Don’t call me _Bri_ ,” the brunet demanded, carefully stepping toward the booth where Em and Ted were sitting. “Where’s Michael?” he inquired, once he’d safely sat down.

“He’s working,” Ted replied. “Apparently, a number of employees at the Big Q are out sick with the flu, so Michael was called in.”

“And was pissy about it too,” added Emmett, a queer expression on his face.

“Christ,” Brian complained, “He’s bound to spread around germs. Is that why you look so sour, Honeycutt?”

“Uh, yeah… that’s it,” the flamboyant man confirmed uncertainly. “Germs.”

Ted cocked a quizzical eyebrow at his friend. “You don’t sound too sure about that, Em.”

“I, uh… oh, fine, I’ll tell you,” Emmett sighed. “When Michael got the call this morning, he was in a huff because he had been meant to meet with David - they had something sexy planned, I think. So I - being the awesome friend I am - told him to call his boo and chat with him… You know, to get his fix or something?”

Brian motioned for him to go on, even though hearing the doctor referred to as Michael’s ‘boo’ was a little off-putting.

“Well, he called him and one thing apparently led to another and the two of them started having phone sex,” he explained with a shudder.

Ted shrugged. “I wouldn’t think you were such a prude, Em. Phone sex is normal.”

Emmett blushed. “I know it is!” he insisted. “But not when you do it on the living room couch, while your roommate is eating breakfast in the kitchen! He came onto my Aunt Lula’s patchwork blanket! And the names they called each other, gross…”

Teddy consoled him, “At least you can run the blanket through the washer.”

“But you can’t unhear those smarmy endearments,” the adman shuddered along with the other two men. “Do you know how they ended up with all that cutesy-poo shit? For all that I wasn’t that fond of Dr Dave at first, I wouldn’t have suspected him of being so infantile.”

“Yeah, I was hoping that David would have a maturing effect on Michael,” Ted commented. “Not the other way around.”

Emmett glanced around before leaning forward and confiding in a low voice, “Spending so much time with the doctor does keep him out of your hair, though, doesn’t it?”

“I know you don’t mean me,” Ted chuckled. “Personally, I always thought Michael’s lips were glued to Brian’s arse. It used to piss me off, back when I had a crush on Michael, but now I’m grateful for it.”

Brian snorted. “As if anybody’s lips would make it anywhere near my arse.”

“Not even Baby’s?” Em slyly inquired.

“Do you have trouble understanding the word ‘anybody’?” Brian barked. He glanced around for the teen, reminded of why he’d come to the diner in the first place, but he didn’t catch a single glimpse of blond hair.

“Justin was heading to the kitchen, the last I saw of him,” Ted remarked.

“Fuck,” Brian muttered to himself. Since when had he become so obvious? “I just want some coffee,” he stated firmly.

“Uh-huh,” Emmett replied disbelievingly. “Why don’t you flag down Harry then?” He pointed toward the other server, who was clearing the booth behind Brian.

“I’ll wait,” Brian insisted, frowning at Em.

“The coffee tastes better when Justin pours it, right?” Ted quipped.

“You’re such a fucking comedian, Theodore,” the adman retorted.

The blond emerged from the kitchen at that moment, and Emmett immediately waved wildly at him. “Your presence is required, Baby,” he hooted.

Justin trotted over to their table. “Yes?” he asked, smiling in his usual friendly fashion.

“Coffee,” Brian grunted.

The teen sent a puzzled glance toward Harry, who was now clearing another nearby table.

“Don’t ask,” Ted advised.

“Just get the growly bear some coffee,” Em chimed in.

“Okay,” Justin shrugged. “Anyone else?”

Both Emmett and Ted nodded.

As the teen moved over to the counter, Brian snarled, “I’m not a fucking bear.” He then glanced down surreptitiously, worrying that the wax-lady hadn’t done a thorough job with his last waxing. His long-sleeve, crew-neck tee prevented him from seeing anything, so he made a mental note to check as soon as he got back to the loft. If there were any stray hairs, he’d be switching beauty parlours immediately.

Engrossed in his self-inspection, Brian didn’t notice Justin had returned to the table until a cup was nudged toward him. “Why do I subject myself to this sludge?” he kvetched as Justin poured liquid on top of the sugar he’d just ladled into his cup.

“There’s always Starbucks,” the teen joked. “We’d even allow you to bring it into the diner and savour it along with our haute cuisine.”

“Starbucks isn’t much of an improvement over diner coffee, if you ask me,” Ted remarked. “Why don’t you-”

“No one asked you, Theodore,” Brian snarked. “Starbucks makes a primo triple-shot latte.”

“I’d think the triple-shot was sugar, but that wouldn’t be enough for you,” the accountant riposted.

“You’re going to need to work on your comedy routine before you go on tour,” the ad exec deadpanned. “A repeated joke isn’t funny anymore.”

“He’s wrong,” Justin got out between giggles. “You already have your one-liners down pat.”

“Traitor,” Brian grumbled, which earned him a raised eyebrow from the teen. Shit, he thought as the teen moved away to serve a clamoring table of lesbians. Not talking to the little twat for a couple of weeks - no matter how much he’d deserved the silent treatment - and then calling him a traitor probably wasn’t the way to entice the blond into his bed.

While Brian was hungrily eyeing Justin’s bubble butt, Emmett asked, “How about the ‘q cafe’? They’re supposed to serve queers around the clock.”

“Bunch of trolls,” the adman disparaged Em’s suggestion.

“What’s that got to do with their coffee?” the bewildered queen wondered.

“If their brew were any good,” Ted explained to his friend, “the place would be frequented by more than trolls.”

“Ding. Ding. Ding. You win the prize, Theodore,” Brian drolled.

“Oh yeah? And what would tha-” Ted started, only to be interrupted by Emmett.

“Ooh, what does Teddy get?” Em bobbed up and down in his seat. “I love prizes.”

“Okay,” Brian shrugged, a devilish glint in his hazel eyes. “You can give Schmidt his reward - you get to buy the next round.”

Emmett pouted. “What kind of a reward is that?”

“The kind where you get to buy me and Theodore drinks,” the adman responded drily.

“Why don’t we decide which coffee houses we’d like to check out and take turns buying?” Ted diplomatically intervened.

“If you can find a coffee house that doubles as a bathhouse, I’m all for it,” Brian responded, tongue-in-cheek.

While his friends discussed the merits of various cafes - Brian did consider LGBTea quite a clever name - the adman observed the blond as he bustled to and fro serving customers. His eyes narrowed when he belatedly noticed the bags under Justin’s eyes. Was the teen so busy fucking _Bob_ that he wasn’t getting any sleep? he conjectured. That wasn’t very responsible of the walking PSA. Once he was warming _Brian’s_ bed, he’d get enough sleep not to look like a walking zombie the next day. It was only charitable for Brian to insist that Justin return between his sheets. Besides, there had to be some kind of ‘right of first fuck’ rule in the gay etiquette handbook, didn’t there?

“Right of first fuck?” Em’s voice jerked Brian out of his musings. “What the flaming heck is that?”

Brian flushed as he realized he must’ve been muttering aloud to himself. He just hoped the bronzing of his skin from regular use of the tanning bed would hide his embarrassment. “Just wishing that Babylon were a troll-free club,” he replied offhandedly.

“We’d all like that,” Ted chuckled, “but trolls are a fact of life.”

“Teddy and I are going to toddle on down to the Queens’ Court.” Emmett commented. “Why don’t you come with, Bri - check out whether it’s troll-free?”

Brian rolled his eyes, about to retort that he wasn’t going to fuck a ‘queen’, troll or not, when Ted interjected, “He meant to say we’re going to drive; it’s too fucking cold to walk anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Em quickly agreed. “We won’t be outside for long; Teddy’s developed the best parking karma.”

The adman glared at the two stooges. It was just like he’d suspected; Theodore had stolen Brian’s usual luck regarding parking, and Emmett had probably aided and abetted. He wished he could think of a way to demand that the accountant give it back without sounding like an utter fool.

“Hey Justin,” Harry called out, interrupting the dark thoughts Brian was sending in Ted’s direction. The Asian server hung up the wall phone, cheekily declaring, “That was Deb. She says to get your perky bubble butt home. It’s almost time for the garage sale to start.”

Thinking this was the perfect opportunity to have a word with the teen, Brian stood up to offer him a lift, but Emmett beat him to the punch. “Baby, Teddy and I will give you a ride,” the queen trilled. “We’re just leaving anyways.”

“Thanks, Em.” Justin beamed at his friend, placing his apron in Harry’s outstretched hand for his co-worker to put away.

The disgruntled adman slouched back down onto the banquette, morosely wondering when it had become so difficult to ask a blond twink for a fuck.

“You will be helping out at the garage sale, won’t you, Bri?” the stately queen inquired as he rose from his seat, Ted scooting out after him.

“No can do. I’m needed downtown,” the adman replied, grateful for his ready-made excuse to avoid freezing his arse off outside Deb and Vic’s house.

“Lucky sod,” Ted grumbled. The adman grinned, amused that both of them thought studying mugshots was better than suffering through a garage sale.

Then again, Brian reflected, if he stopped by Deb’s after he was done at the precinct, there might be another opportunity to entice the teen over for a fuck. As he was plotting how to approach Justin without being roped into ‘helping out’, the three men vanished through the door, Em airily calling out, “Ta-ta.”

 

“Um, is it okay if I drop you off here?” Ted asked Justin, stopping a couple houses down from Deb’s. “I don’t want to endure a lecture for not joining you now.”

“Sure,” the teen shrugged, knowing his friends would get the rough edge of Debbie’s tongue if she did catch them.

“We’ll be here just as soon as we’ve checked out what promises to be my new favourite cafe - the Queens’ Court,” Em added.

“Shit, here she comes,” Ted yelped as Debbie barreled down the sidewalk toward them.

“Later!” Em cried out as Justin slammed shut the back door, the sedan immediately peeling away, leaving a patch of rubber behind.

“They’ll be here shortly,” the teen assured the irate redhead, who was yelling, “Get your butts back here, you lazy sods,” whilst tugging at one of her boots so she could throw it after the fleeing vehicle.

“Someone needs to put a leash on those boys,” Deb harrumphed, stomping back toward her house, “and I know just what I’d fasten it to.”

Justin blanched as he was suddenly assaulted by a vivid picture of the two men being led about by leashes attached to their dicks. “Ehm,” he squeaked, “surely we can manage by ourselves for a bit. Do we really have that much stuff to sell?”

“Vic and I added some stuff that was collecting dust in our closets,” Debbie revealed. She cackled, “Fuck knows, even if I lose some weight, there’s no way I’m going to squeeze into a size eight again.”

“What’d Vic contribute?” the teen asked, a frown of concern on his face. It wouldn’t be healthy for the older man to lose any more weight.

Debbie must’ve surmised the direction of his thoughts, reassuring him, “Don’t worry; Vic’s not sick. He just doesn’t want his outdated clubbing clothes any longer. Geesh,” she laughed, “he had this one garish outfit that made him look like a used car salesman; it was hilarious.”

As they walked down the sidewalk, they passed Vincent, Deb’s orange Ford Pinto, which boasted a yellow placard with a giant arrow and lopsided words directing, ‘Queer Sale Here’. Justin burst out laughing, finally managing to gasp, “Why didn’t you ask me to make a sign? I could’ve done a better job than that.”

“Undoubtedly,” Debbie concurred, “but this one has character!”

“Hey, Justin,” Vic called as they entered the driveway, “give me a hand, wouldya?”

“What’s this for?” the teen inquired as he helped the older man assemble some flimsy-looking poles.

“It’s a clothes rack,” Vic explained, “so we can hang up some of the duds we’re selling.”

“Uh, are you sure it won’t collapse?” Justin asked dubiously, the frame wobbling on its feet.

“It’s held up in the past, when we’ve used it for guests.” Debbie assured him as she looked at the swaying rack. “It should stabilize once we’ve put some clothes on it.”

That didn’t really make sense to the blond, but he supposed some clothing ending up on the floor of the garage wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

“Here,” the redhead urged, “let’s hang this up first.” placing a beruffled, fuchsia-coloured garment on the rack.

“Christ, Sis,” Vic reminisced, running a finger along the satin, “I remember Danny coming to pick you up for your senior prom. His jaw dropped almost to the floor when he saw you all fancied up in this dress.”

“Yeah,” Deb said fondly, waggling her eyebrows at her brother. “It certainly did inspire him later on.”

Justin felt like he was missing something in their byplay, but he didn’t let it bother him. He just enjoyed the siblings’ usual banter.

“Are you sure you want to sell it, Sis?” Vic inquired.

“Heck, yes,” the redhead adamantly declared. “It’s been taking up space in my wardrobe for over thirty years.” With a chuckle, she added, “Even if I were to lace myself into this corset” - she held up one of their attic finds - “I still wouldn’t be able to squeeze into that gown. I’d rather another lass give it a whirl at her prom. Do you think Daphne might like it, Sunshine?”

The blond glanced at the fussy, vivid purple dress. “Uh, I don’t think it’s her colour?” he diplomatically replied.

“That’s too bad. Someone else is bound to snap it up,” Deb commented.

Justin smiled and shrugged. There was no accounting for taste.

“Let’s carry out some of the big items and set them in the driveway,” Vic suggested, “while Sis finishes arranging the clothes.”

Over the next half hour, the two men toted a massive wooden rocking chair and a pair of nightstands from the attic. They followed that with smaller items, including a vintage radio with large knobs; a small, hooked rug; a manual typewriter; and a chess set.

“Do you play?” Vic asked, pointing at the chess game as they set the boxes down. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“I know the basics,” the blond said, “but checkers is more my speed.” Pouting, he admitted, “Even there, I’ve apparently got ‘tells’ that are keeping me from winning. The detective thrashed me on Thanksgiving.”

“We can play a couple games if you want,” Vic offered. “Maybe I can spot your giveaways.”

“That would be great,” Justin enthused, setting down a box with an _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ , from which the letter ‘F’ was missing. “I’d like to provide some real competition.”

Vic placed another box with children’s books, old Dick Tracy comics, and paperback mysteries and thrillers, next to the incomplete encyclopaedia set. “Okay, just the boxes from Sis and my bedrooms to go,” the older man stated wearily, rubbing at his lower back.

“Why don’t you let me get them?” the teen asked. “You could help Deb with displaying all these ‘treasures’.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Vic responded. “There’s quite a few boxes.”

“It’s no problem,” Justin insisted.

“Just grab any boxes you see in the bedrooms,” Vic directed. “Be careful how you lift them, though. I don’t want you pulling a muscle,” he finished, rubbing some more at his back.

As the teen carried down the final load, the carton piled high with a bedspread, curtains, jumpers, and two pairs of high heels, he heard the strains of _Oh My Darling, Clementine_ wafting from the garage. He grinned when he saw Vic pumping the handle of the Victrola, Deb’s hips swaying as she draped a patchwork blanket across the rocking chair.

“Are you selling the gramophone?” he asked.

“No fucking way,” the redhead muttered as she pawed through the box Justin had just delivered.

“This Victrola is part of our family history,” Vic concurred, patting the side of the player fondly.

“Here they are!” Debs triumphantly declared, pulling out a pair of purplish-red pumps. “These go with my prom dress.”

“Yoo-hoo!” a voice called out, “Has the garage sale started?”

The teen stared in amazement as a gaudily-attired queen tottered toward them in a pair of stilettos. How the fuck did she manoeuvre in those? Justin wondered.

“Doll,” a deep voice greeted him as she got closer. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

Before the teen could respond, Debbie shrieked, “Marvella! You’re our first customer!”

Justin watched in astonishment as the two women hugged. In short order, Marvella turned to him with a saucy grin and enveloped him in a hug as well. “Sugar,” she averred, “Debs and I got to know each other when we were discussing your black eye that day in the diner.”

Justin flushed, recalling how Marvella had mistakenly thought he’d been beat up by his boyfriend.

“I can’t stay long,” the drag queen drawled, “since I have to open Second Hand Job, but I just had to stop when I saw the sign on that _gorgeous_ Pinto. Is the car for sale too?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t bear to part with Vincent,” Debbie asserted, linking arms with Marvella and leading her toward the clothes rack, “but there are plenty of other goodies here that you might like.”

While the drag queen browsed through the offerings, Ted pulled up to the curb in his dark green sedan. Once he’d parked, Emmett climbed out, balancing a cardboard tray of coffee drinks in one hand and clutching a bakery bag in the other.

Deb glared belligerently as the two men made their way inside the garage. “Where were you when we needed you?” she accused. “Sunshine had to haul everything down here by himself since Vic hurt his back.”

“We were in desperate need of coffee,” Ted weakly excused himself and Em.

“ _Riiight_ ,” the redhead skeptically retorted, “even though you’d just been at the diner.”

“We just _had_ to check out the Queens’ Court,” Emmett elaborated, “and we do come bearing goodies.”

“Ooh, I just love that caff,” Marvella interjected. “Did you try one of their cranberry scones?”

“We have some right here.” The flamboyant man waved the bag enticingly at Deb.

“Could I purchase one from you?” the drag queen sweetly inquired. “I didn’t have time to stop and grab a bite.”

Justin grinned to himself at Marvella making time for a garage sale but not to eat.

Noticing his amusement, the drag queen chided, “I’m not a growing boy, like you, Sugar. I really shouldn’t indulge,” she sighed, “but the scones from the Queens’ Court are irresistible.”

“No charge,” Vic insisted, snatching the bag from Emmett’s hand and holding out a scone. “You can have one of the coffees, too,” he gallantly offered. “My sister has just gone inside to brew some anyway.”

“Well, aren’t you the gallant gentleman.” Marvella fluttered her eyelashes at Vic. As she munched on the scone and sipped coffee, she led him around the garage and the driveway, inquiring about the prices for various items, including the prom dress and what the teen assumed must’ve been one of Vic’s clubbing outfits.

“Hmm,” she mused as she looked at the two nightstands, “I could make a killing if I refinish these. Could I get you gents to put them in the trunk of my car?” She pointed to a hot pink Oldsmobile from the 1950s that was parked behind Vincent.

“Wait!” Emmett protested as Justin lifted one of the nightstands, the door to the small cabinet falling open. “There’s something inside. Ooh,” he whistled after the teen had put the bedside table back on the ground - reaching inside, pulling out an oblong box, and dusting it off with his coat sleeve. “This is the original Twister from 1966!”

“Huh,” Justin grunted, not sure what to make of Em’s excitement.

“You can’t sell this!” the flamboyant man insisted. “We’ll have to play sometime.”

“Damn!” Marvella stamped her foot. “To think that was almost mine. I was looking forward to DC contorting himself around me. Then again,” she reflected, a wicked twinkle in her eyes, “I have plenty of ways to get him to do that.”

Justin and Ted loaded the emptied nightstands into Marvella’s Olds, while the drag queen paid for her purchases. “I insist,” she stated loudly, refusing the change that Vic tried to hand her. “You boys have been real gents, and I’m going to make a killing when I resell these items.”

As she drove off, Justin inspected the bakery bag, his stomach rumbling for another scone. He was disappointed to find it empty.

“Sorry, Baby,” Emmett apologised. “We didn’t account for feeding your bubble butt.”

“It takes something more substantial than that to fill our Sunshine.” Debbie averred with a lascivious wink as she returned carrying a platter.

“That’s _Bob’s_ job,” Vic inserted slyly, making the teen blush.

“Indeedy,” Em affirmed, winking at Justin.

“Have one of these, Kiddo,” Debbie suggested, handing Justin a ham and turkey sandwich. “We have plenty of fixings for more sarnies,” she said as the teen hungrily bit into the turkey and ham double-decker. The redhead turned to go back inside, explaining, “The coffee should be just around ready, and I’ll see what I can rustle up for dessert.”

As Justin was scarfing down a second sarnie, a few snowflakes began drifting down.

“We’d better keep an eye on that,” Vic warned. “We’ll have to throw some tarps over the furniture if the snow gets any heavier.

“I’ll handle any clothes-related questions,” Emmett offered as more potential buyers approached the garage.

“I’ll field inquiries about the books,” Ted proposed. “I’ve read quite a number of thrillers and mysteries.”

“I’ll man the till,” Vic declared, yawning widely and taking a seat in the comfortable chair that had been placed near the cash box.

“I’ll eat the food that Deb ferries out,” the teen joked.

All four men were soon busy assisting customers, the money in the cash box slowly accumulating.

 

It was nearly four when Brian found himself mounting the stone steps leading up to the Lexington Street police station. He promptly made his way to the first floor and then turned left in the bullpen to arrive at the homicide division.

Horvath’s office door was open, but Brian could see the man wasn’t at his desk. Great, he thought to himself when he noticed Wen was inside alone, just what he needed.

He knocked at the door frame politely, causing the Asian woman to lift her eyes from the folder she was reading. “Can I come in?” he asked. “Detective Horvath invited me over to have a look at some photos.”

Wen hmmed. “I’m aware,” she told him with a subtle motion of her hand.

Brian took that to mean he was welcome to enter, so he stepped inside and after a brief moment of indecisiveness, he sat down in one of the chairs in front of Wen’s desk. “I’ll just wait here, shall I?” he prompted the woman, hoping she’d give him some inkling as to when her partner was going to arrive. Or, even better, that she’d just give him the photos herself and he could be done with it.

The Chinese detective didn’t acknowledge him, though, instead reaching for a brown folder on a wooden cabinet behind her and opening it. The ad executive took a deep breath, trying to gather his reserves of patience.

The phone on Wen’s desk rang, and the Asian immediately picked up the receiver. “Wen,” she announced.

There was a few-second silence as the person on the other end of the line spoke, before she continued. “We’ll deal with that later,” she grunted. “At length.”

And wow, that sounded like someone was in trouble, thought Brian gleefully. Was he about to witness a spectacular chewing out?

“I don’t need your apologies,” Wen was saying, “I need you to do better.” A pause. “Then maybe you shouldn’t work here,” she snapped before calmly hanging up.

Ouch. Brian swallowed nervously as he watched the woman sitting opposite him. “Um, is Horvath going to be here soon?” he asked quietly as not to unnecessarily antagonise her.

Wen looked up from her report slowly, narrowing her eyes at him. “Yes,” she told him simply after a bit of consideration, before returning to her paperwork.

Brian nodded in acknowledgment. “Great.”

Several long minutes of silence passed, before Brian gathered his courage again and piped up, “How soon is soon exactly?”

The Chinese woman didn’t glance up this time, merely throwing a curt, “Soon.” his way.

The brunet man huffed irritatedly. Had the woman been raised in a barn? It was a sign of common human decency to look at someone while speaking to them.

Just then a dishevelled-looking Horvath rushed in, panting. “Sorry I’m late. There was a bit of a- ehm, situation,” he explained. “You didn’t wait long, I hope?”

Rising to greet him, Brian shook his head. “No, it was fine,” he assured the man, shooting a quick glare Wen’s way. “The company could use a bit of work, though.”

The burly detective grinned apologetically. “She in a bad mood, is she? That would be the guy who managed to flee her yesterday - not something that happens often, trust me.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “I believe you,” he admitted. “How did it happen?” he then asked, not able to suppress his curiosity.

Glancing at his partner uncertainly, Horvath shrugged. “Probably best not to talk about it,” he advised in a hushed tone.

Refusing to acknowledge the disappointment at being denied a bit of gossip material, Brian nodded. “All right, you said you had some photos for me?”

Horvath nodded, pulling a blue file out of his briefcase. “I have a couple more faces for you to look at, as well as a picture of a vehicle.”

“The one used in the robbery?” Brian questioned with a slight amount of excitement. Was it possible that the coppers had finally found something worthwhile?

Horvath passed him the folder. “We don’t know, Mr Kinney; it’s possible. Just have a look and see if anything or anyone seems familiar, ok?”

Brian opened the folder, peeking inside. There was a face of a black guy with a gold earring and perfectly threaded eyebrows. Huh, thought the brunet, turning a page and looking at a second photo. A white guy this time, nice skin, exfoliated lips. The picture after that showed a blond twink, vaguely resembling Justin, with long hair and eyeliner.

He narrowed his eyes at Horvath. “Why do you suspect a fag broke into my flat?”

The copper glanced at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

Flicking his hand against the folder, Brian explained, “These people are all gay’ - did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“It’s an angle we’re working on,” the older man admitted. “Don’t be mistaken, though, these people are all criminals. Pickpockets, thieves, hustlers…”

The ad exec nodded. “Right, I’ll see if I recognise anyone,” he promised, sitting back down. He flipped through the photos, inspecting face after face, but apart from a couple vaguely familiar fags he couldn’t place but that he’d probably seen at Babylon or in the baths, he came up empty. The same was true for the photo of a large, grey moving van, most likely taken from a CCTV footage - didn’t ring a bell.

“I’m sorry,” he told Horvath. “I honestly don’t know any of these people.”

The detective sighed. “It was a long shot,” he admitted, rising to his feet. “Well, thank you for your time-”

“Wait,” Brian stopped him, not ready to leave yet. Not without some sort of information on how the investigation was going. “I take it you’ve made some progress as you’re working this new ‘angle’?” he asked.

The older man tilted his head to the side. “Yes,” he agreed. “We got the CSU report a couple days back, which helped us make a much clearer picture of what happened.”

“And?”

“We still don’t know who’s responsible, Mr Kinney; we’re following several leads and-”

Their conversation was interrupted by a hissed exclamation of something that sounded like ‘tamada’ or ‘tamade’ from Wen. The Asian detective stood up and with a quietly uttered, “Be right back.” left the office.

The two men stared after her for a second, before looking at each other. “What was that about?” Brian asked.

Horvath looked uncertain for a moment, before he glanced at his watch. “Oh, it’s already half four; she’s late for the department’s sexual harassment seminar.”

Raising an eyebrow, Brian queried, “Why aren’t _you_ there too?”

“Only one of us is required to go,” the copper confided. “And Ming lost the game of Roshambo.”

The brunet shook his head. “Could it be that that also added to her bad mood?”

The other man smirked. “Most definitely, the seminar is bullshit. Don’t touch anyone’s privates without their consent; don’t ask anyone to sleep with you in exchange for work perks - that sort of thing.”

“In other words, common sense,” Brian concluded.

Horvath snorted. “One would think so, right? Anyway, if that’s all-”

“I know you’re trying to get rid of me,” the brunet stated bluntly, “but can you really not tell me anything? I am the victim, after all; one would think I’d have a right to know a little more than just ‘we’re working a new angle’.”

“Mr Kinney,” Horvath said slowly, “this case is bigger than just you. I would really rather not disclose sensitive information about an ongoing case.”

“Surely you don’t think I’d tell anyone anything? It’s in my interest that you catch those cretins that broke into my loft!”

“I’m sorry, Mr Kinney-”

“And stop Mr Kinney-ing me,” Brian spat, irritated beyond belief. “I feel like you’re talking to my father.”

Horvath hesitated. “Brian, then. I am truly sorry, but I can’t tell you anything more at the moment.”

The younger man deflated at the honest expression of regret on Horvath’s face. “All right, sorry,” he apologised grudgingly, before promising, “I won’t bug you about it anymore.”

The copper looked relieved, which just strengthened Brian’s resolve to find out what was going on. Horvath might not have realised it, but he had provided the younger man with an important clue when he’d told him the case was bigger than just him - that meant he wasn’t the only victim the police were investigating.

 

A couple miles away, the garage sale was in full swing. “Look, Harv,” a tattooed biker motioned toward the the large yellow vase striated with white that was displayed on a sawhorse in Debbie’s garage. “That reminds me of a vase my oma had when I was a child - she claimed she’d inherited it from her grandmother, who was gifted it by Kaiser Wilhelm in thanks for her loyal service.”

“What happened to it?” Harv inquired.

“Uh, I knocked it over when I was roughhousing with my brother,” the biker abashedly confessed. “It smashed into smithereens. Even without the tanning my dad gave me, I would have felt really bad about it. Oma was in tears for days, lamenting how the certificate of authenticity wasn’t any good without the vase.”

“Well, Pumpkin,” Harv grandly declared, “Price is no object. I have to buy this one for you as a memento of your grandma and your family history.”

“Do you think the tattooed dude’s name is ‘Pumpkin’?” Ted hissed at Emmett and Justin, who were gawping at Harv as he lumbered over to Vic.

The teenager winced. “Nah. Pet names must be popular right now.”

“It’s a heckuva lot better than ‘honeybun’,” Emmett intoned.

“Or ‘boopsie’,” Ted grimaced.

“How much for that piece of fine china there?” Harv inquired of Vic. He didn’t bat an eye or bother to dicker when Vic quoted an outrageous price, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash, and removing the stated amount. “Thanks,” he smiled at Vic, gold-capped teeth showing. “You’ve made my ‘Pumpkin’ happy.”

The amazed men watched as the purchasers climbed aboard a motorcycle, the vase secured between Harv and his biker boyfriend, before roaring off down the street.

“Wasn’t it kinda mean, charging so much for that vase?” Emmett wondered aloud.

“Not at all,” Vic defended the price hike. “If I’d only asked for a couple dollars, Harv would’ve thought it was worthless crap. This way he not only pleased his boyfriend; he also thinks he pulled the wool over my eyes and acquired a genuine work of art at a bargain price.”

“Lesbian art,” Ted shuddered.

“I know, right?” Justin chimed in. “So gross. It was shaped like a vagina.”

“How would you recognize a vagina?” Vic kidded.

“Fucking health education classes,” the teen groused.

“Classes in fucking?” Em teased. “I’m all for that.”

“Not if it’s muncher sex, you’re not.” Ted chided.

“Ew.” Emmett wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I haven’t wanted to touch a vagina since my mother gave birth to me,” he joshed. “And I was probably grateful to leave it behind even then.”

“Pumpkin custard anyone?” Debbie inquired, entering the garage with a tray loaded with coffee and cups of custard.

“Fuck, yeah!” Justin cheered the arrival of more food.

“How much for a custard and a cup of coffee?” a raven-haired woman asked, glancing up from the box of children’s books.

Deb looked taken aback for a moment, but then she quoted a price.

“That’s a bargain, if it tastes as good as it smells,” the woman asserted, taking a seat where the vagina vase had previously rested.

Debbie did a brisk business after that, selling baked goods, coffee, and tea as fast as she could prepare the food and drink and carry it outside.

“Fuck,” Justin complained half an hour later, his stomach rumbling. “I still haven’t gotten that custard.”

“Ten dollars,” the redhead joked as she served another customer.

“Jesus, it’s like being in the navy,” Ted protested, “lots of work for little pay.”

“ _In the navy_ ,” Vic warbled in a pleasing tenor, “ _where you can find pleasure, search the world for treasure…_ ”

“No,” Justin moaned, covering his ears. “I don’t want to hear that song ever again.”

“Maybe we need new lyrics,” Em suggested. “How about, ‘In the garage…”

“No, not ‘garage’,” Vic inserted, “‘gay-rage’.”

“That’s it,” Justin replied, excited to revise the annoying tune.

“We’re all hard-working mechanics,” Ted got into the spirit of things, deftly catching the wrench Vic had tossed to him.

“In our grease-free, designer overalls,” the tall queen joked. Emmett looked Justin up and down, suggesting, “You’d be a fine-looking woman, Baby. You can be our blonde bimbo receptionist.”

Em overrode the teen’s protests and soon had Debbie’s old corset wrapped around Justin’s jumper and was lacing it up from behind. He then pushed the giggling teen down onto a vacant spot on the sawhorse. While Ted removed the blond’s sneakers and placed a pair of high-heeled pumps on his feet, Emmett applied the red lipstick and blush that Deb had brought out.

When Emmett pulled Justin to his feet, the teen wobbled two steps in the heels and promptly fell over. “Shit!” he kvetched. “Why do women wear these unstable torture devices?”

“Harder than it looks, ain’t it, Sunshine?” Debbie asked, chuckling as she looked down at the blond.

“It just takes practice,” Emmett insisted, “but we’d better find you a different pair of shoes for now.”

“I vote for my trainers,” the teen said, sighing resignedly when Ted brought over three more pairs of women’s shoes for him to try on. He ended up wearing a pair of low-heeled, open-toed, lime-green pumps that were surprisingly comfortable.

They hashed out corny lyrics and then danced their way around the garage, vamping it up for the benefit of the customers. Vic only lasted a few minutes before declaring that he had to sit down. “I can still participate from my chair,” Vic remarked, looking gleeful as he kicked his legs up.

Even though their performance was rather ragged and out of sync at first, the visitors to the garage sale seemed to enjoy their efforts, yelling encouragement and shelling out money for Debbie’s baked goods and beverages while they watched. Pretty much no one left without purchasing at least one of the items for sale.

 

Setting his things down on the kitchen table upon his return home, Brian poured himself a healthy glass of guava juice before powering up his computer. He needed to research some viable real estate for his new company, but first he was going to satisfy his curiosity and follow up on the lead Horvath had inadvertently given him.

Typing ‘ _Pittsburgh burglary_ ’ into the search engine, Brian was assaulted by an enormous number of news articles and reports. Looking at the dates, the brunet raised his eyebrows in surprise. Huh, who would’ve thought there were so many robberies happening in the Pitts every day? Not having the will to go through each and every article, he decided to add another key word to his search.

The search results were a lot more manageable for ‘ _Pittsburgh burglary moving van_ ’, only spitting out a handful of links. Brian clicked on all of them over the course of the next twenty minutes, but he wasn’t any wiser for it. There were two articles that spoke of an art gallery robbery where an important example of the Decadent movement had been stolen - Verlaine or something. Then there was a mention of a hold-up at a jewellry store in downtown Pittsburgh during which a police officer got injured. Speaking of injuries, there were several accounts of an old woman getting stabbed to death during a family home robbery, which just made Brian cringe violently. It was probably very fucking lucky Justin hadn’t been home that miserable Saturday. Another report was of a pharmacy burglary during which their whole supply of Percocet and OxyContin had been stolen - a crime the narcotics division had apparently already solved, taking the drugs off the streets. There _were_ a couple recent mentions of family home burglaries in Brian’s area that involved a van, but apart from that, the brunet couldn’t see a discernible pattern.

Resorting to one last idea, which was to peruse the Pittsburgh Police Department web page, Brian poured himself another glass of juice and then continued his investigation. The ‘Crime statistics’ tab only provided him with useless numbers - unless you were interested in the fact that there had been a recent rise in teenage joyriding, of course - and Brian was forced to sift through another seven tabs to find the one he needed. The PPD was in some desperate need of a webpage upgrade, if you asked him.

Taking a sip of his beverage, he began reading nonetheless. Skimming over various reports of joyride cases, drink driving, bar fights, and pickpocketing, Brian moved onto the more serious crimes. There had been six knife assaults, three murders, and one case of suicide in the month of October so far, and it was only the twenty-sixth. Jesus, he could’ve probably done without knowing that. There had also been four hold-ups, seven armed robberies, and twenty-three home burglaries - four of which had happened in Brian’s area. The public reports didn’t include such details as what sort of vehicles the robbers had used or if the robberies were a part of a series, though, so the brunet found he wasn’t any wiser for reading all that bullshit.

Sighing in disappointment, Brian rubbed a hand across his face. Well, that was that then - it was probable that his was only one out of a series of burglaries just like Horvath had insinuated, but he could find no proof. Standing up to straighten out his back a little, Brian took his empty glass over to the kitchen sink and quickly rinsed it out - no reason using the dishwasher if he barely ever had any dirty dishes. It used to be different with Justin at the loft; the blond cooked often and the dishwasher ran almost nonstop, but now it was just another piece of useless crap that took up space in Brian’s kitchen.

The brunet decided to postpone his real estate research for a day or so, figuring that showing his face at Debs’ garage sale wasn’t going to kill him. Glancing through the window, he noticed it had started snowing - large, soft-looking snowflakes slowly drifting towards the ground. Better dress up warm then, he thought.

Brian spent the next ten minutes picking out clothes that would both warm him and not make him look like a yeti - something insulating but not thick or bulky. In the end, he still ended up with more layers than he would normally like, but red cheeks and a runny nose weren’t his best look, so he told himself to suck it up.  

This proved to be a very good decision, because as he drove to Debbie’s house, the wind started picking up and the snow began falling faster and heavier. The roads were going to be hell tomorrow, the ad exec realised. Bugger.

 

Parking a couple blocks down from Deb’s place, the adman was grateful not only for the warm layers of clothing but also for the scarf wrapped around neck and his cashmere-lined gloves as he walked. He sourly noted that Ted’s car was once again parked directly in front. Were all the queers in the city at this damned garage sale? he wondered. It was hardly on par with Bergdorf Goodman’s annual sale of designer goods, so it shouldn’t be drawing gays like fucking flies.

He stared in amazement when he noticed the throng in the driveway, all of whom seemed to be intently watching something or other. “What’s going on?” he asked a dyke with multiple facial piercings.

“Ssh,” she hushed him. “They’re just about to start.”

Brian had turned to request more information from the leather daddy to his left, when Ted and Emmett strutted to the front of the garage. With a saucy wink at the audience, Emmett strutted forward a couple more paces, placing an upturned hat on the ground, before moving back until he was even with Theodore.

“ _Where can you find_ _pleasure_ ,” Em crooned, running his hands down his torso.

“ _Search the world for treasure_ ,” Ted chimed in, both men turning to point into the garage. As they did so, the overhead light was turned on, revealing a blonde sitting with her back to them, facing Vic.

Why the heck was the woman wearing a corset over her jumper? the adman puzzled. Then _she_ stood up and turned around, singing, “ _Learn science technology._ ”

Brian gaped, his mouth hanging open as a corseted _Justin_ blew kisses toward Theodore and Emmett. Holy fuck, the kid’s fingernails were polished a bright red. The brunet eyed the teen more closely. Was he wearing lipstick and blush? As his dick stirred in his jeans, Brian was disturbed to realize the blond looked fucking _hot_.

All three men trilled, “ _Where can you begin to make all your dreams come true? On the land or on the sea?_ ”

Justin sashayed over to the table where Vic was sitting. The older man belted out, “ _Where can you learn to fly?_ ” holding out a box of _Special K_.

The adman chuckled, getting reminded of the night he’d met the innocent teen. Hard to believe the minx in front of him was the same person.

“ _Play with balls?_ ” the blond carolled, reaching toward his crotch.

“ _And skin dive?_ ” Emmett sang, pretending to strip off his clothes.

The teen pranced over until he was between Ted and Emmett. The three men shimmied and shook their asses, Vic tossing a wrench from hand to hand and joining them in piping out,

_“Yes, you can put your fender at ease_

_In the gay-rage._

_Come on people, fall in and bend over,_

_In the gay-rage, in the gay-rage._

_Can’t you see we need a hand?”_

The three men mimed jerking themselves off.

_“In the gay-rage,_

_Come on, protect the homo land._

_In the gay-rage,_

_Come on and join your fellow man.”_

Justin stepped back behind Emmett and pretended to fuck the queen, the queen obligingly bending his knees to account for the height disparity.

Brian scowled. Fucking Honeycutt had stolen his move.

_“In the gay-rage,_

_Come on people and make a stand._

_In the gay-rage, in the gay-rage!”_

While the adman continued to glower, the rest of audience hooted and hollered, tossing bills and coins into the upturned hat. Shouts of “Bravo!” and “Encore!” resounded from the horde of fags.

Brian couldn’t help feeling a little envious of the camaraderie between the three men and how at ease they were with making a spectacle of themselves in public. He himself wasn’t comfortable with anything which might lead to making a fool of himself in front of others. Sure, he could wow clients with a presentation, but that was only after a lot of hard work and preparation - not at all the same as this impromptu skit.

While he brooded, the trio hammed it up, reprising the final lines of the ditty, shaking their tushes and kicking up their legs. When they finished, Emmett beamed at his cohorts, smacking first Teddy and then Justin on the lips.

Brian was irritated by how long the flaming queen lingered over kissing the teen, Justin going on his tiptoes to whisper something - it had better not be a sweet nothing - into the taller man’s ear. Noting that the blond now had his back to Emmett, the queen’s hands suspiciously near Justin’s rear, he decided it was time to break up this farce. He walked over to the boys, intending to deliver a scathing set-down, but what came out was, “Hands off, Honeycutt!”

Em gave him an exasperated glare.

The teen didn’t even acknowledge Brian. “Try again,” he pled. “I’ve got to have this fucking corset off. It’s gotten tighter, I’d swear; I can barely breathe.”

“I can’t get the knot to come undone, Baby,” Em apologised.

The dyke with the multiple piercings who had been standing next to Brian clomped over to them. “Here, use my penknife,” she offered, holding out a gigantic, red, multi-tool Swiss Army knife. “Don’t worry about preserving the cord; I’m gonna buy the corset and have it restrung for my Honeybun.”

“Wait till Michael finds out that Dr Dave is using a lesbian endearment for him,” Ted muttered quietly to Brian.

The adman chuckled, “Are you going to tell him?”

“Heck no,” Ted responded, “but I am going to get a laugh out of it every time the good doctor calls him that.”

Freed of the restrictive corset, Justin doubled over, heaving in much-needed air. “It’s all yours,” he huffed, the corset dangling from one hand as he held it out to the dyke.

The woman smiled jubilantly, declaring, “Wanda’s going to love this.” before carrying the undergarment over to Vic to pay for it.

As the lesbian was leaving, a middle-aged man with thinning hair picked up a small item, waving it around and calling out, “How much for this?”

“Is Deb purveying condoms now?” the adman huffed out with a laugh.

“Vic put that out for a lark,” Justin informed him as he straightened up. “It’s from 1959.”

“I’m not going to use it,” the balding fag responded, his tone bitter. “I’m going to send it to my mum and dad - with a note telling them they wouldn’t have ended up with the son they rejected for being gay -

if they’d had the forethought to use one of these forty-one years ago.”

“Bastards,” Emmett grunted, his friends muttering their agreement.

“Take it. There’s no charge.” Vic said, gazing at the man in shared understanding.

After the man had pocketed the condom and departed, a determined expression on his face, Em turned to Justin, obviously shaking off dismal thoughts. “Baby, I’m feeling rather peckish,” he commented. “All that dancing has given me an appetite. Do you think Debs has anything left in the fridge of hers?”

“I’ll go see what I can find,” Justin offered with a wan smile.

Emmett put an arm around Ted’s shoulders, leaning in conspiratorially. “So, Teddy,” he began in a hushed voice, “did you notice that piece of beefy hunk that kept loitering around and shooting you smouldering glances?”

Brian could see the older man flush slightly. “No, not really,” the accountant denied.

Emmett grinned. “He seemed to have been really into you; do you know him, perhaps?”

Ted shrugged, shooting his friend a perplexed look. “Do you think that if I knew someone hot like that, I could keep it a secret?”

The taller man visibly considered this. “You’re right, probably not. I know that _I_ would definitely spill everything the second I laid eyes on such a stallion. Too bad, though, he seemed really interested.”

Brian shook his head, patting Ted on the head like one would do to a loyal dog. “Don’t worry, Theodore, you didn’t miss out on anything. I’m sure the guy wasn’t looking at you anyway,” he soothed him with fake concern.

Ted snorted, shooting him a look. “Thank you, Bri. It’s nice to have you as a friend.”

It was at this point that Justin returned with the refreshments, which consisted of a platter of English cucumber sandwiches - Deb was obviously reaching a bit after the onslaught on her fridge, courtesy of the garage sale customers - and a boiling hot teapot with Earl Grey.

“Oh!” Emmett called out excitedly, leaving Ted’s side and skipping over to Justin. “How posh!”

Brian snorted, grabbing a sandwich and inspecting it. “Posh? I don’t think so.”

Justin shrugged. “It’s the only thing Debbie had left; our fridge looks like it’s been cleared out by a racoon commando.”

Emmett swallowed a mouthful of bread, licking crumbs off his lips. “These are really good,” he praised, reaching for another one.

Brian, who’d carefully bitten off a small piece and was now thoroughly chewing it, hmmed in agreement. “Not bad,” he admitted. Then, seeing the customers had basically all left and a clean-up was imminent, he excused himself, “Now, I need to go. The backroom at Babylon is calling!”

The boys waved him off as Brian began the long walk back to his car. Despite what he had told his friends, he didn’t actually plan to go to Babylon; instead, he was thinking of getting a look at those real estate listings after all. Or, he might just go straight to bed and jerk himself off to sleep - now there was an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 他妈的 (tā mā de) = fuck, shit, an exclamation of anger
> 
> Also, don't forget our FanDoc (There are new contests so be sure to check it out): https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	26. Chapter 26

Geesh, Justin thought, looking at the mounds of snow shoved to the sides of the road while more snow streamed from the sky, the bus inching its way along. He would’ve missed his connection to this bus if all traffic hadn’t been slowed to a crawl by the near-blizzard conditions. His current bus was following a snowplow, which meant it was making forward progress as compared to the stalled traffic on the side streets.

While they were en route, his wristwatch had suddenly stopped working, so the teen wasn’t certain of the time. His fingers drummed nervously against his backpack as he fretted that he was going to be late. Dixon was bound to be there no matter what - he apparently lived within a few blocks of the school - and Justin knew the maths teacher would take great pleasure in reprimanding him in front of the class.

The moment the bus pulled into the stop near the school, Justin shot out the doors, shouting, “Thanks!” to the driver. His dress shoes gaining no traction, he skidded on the slick pavement but managed to remain upright. Heedless of the risk of injury, he loped toward St James, into the building, and then up the stairs at a dead run, barely noticing how empty the corridors were.

Justin heaved a sigh of relief, the bell tolling eight o’clock as he turned the knob to the calculus classroom. He wasn’t late then. In fact, he noted as he walked to his usual desk, the only others in the room were Dixon and a female student, the one who constantly complained about having a full bladder.

“How kind of you to join us, Mr Taylor,” the maths teacher greeted him sourly.

“Mr Dixon,” the blond nodded in acknowledgement, biting down on his lip to hide a gloating smile. The bastard couldn’t give him a chewing-out for being late, not that the teacher would’ve gotten much satisfaction out of it anyway in front of just one other student. He was curious as to what Dixon would do with only two of them in class.

When the eighth chime had died away and no one else had entered the classroom, Dixon begrudgingly announced, “The snowfall must’ve delayed your classmates. Unlike the public schools,” he sniffed in disdain, “St James will remain open. We won’t let a little snow force us to close our doors.”

Typical, Justin snorted to himself. St James prided itself on staying open no matter the circumstances, boasting about always being ready to provide a quality education to its students. He felt a twinge of concern for Frau Rose, since the librarian had mentioned that she commuted into the city from West Virginia, deciding he would check on her at lunchtime.

After glowering at Justin and the full-bladdered girl for a few moments - Justin noticed she’d started to shift restlessly in her chair - Dixon announced magnanimously, “I’ll give the other students until eight-twenty to arrive. If they aren’t here by then, it will count as an unexcused absence and may affect their grade.”

The teen blanched as he was reminded of St James’ policy on unexcused absences. Although he hadn’t racked up such absences for any of his classes, he knew Daphne had skipped out on calculus a couple times so she could hook up with Glenn. His friend could be in deep trouble if she missed math class for a third time and was docked half a grade for the semester - unless, of course, the administration bent its stringent rules enough to accept ‘a little snow’ as an excused absence.

“You two,” Dixon ordered, “open your workbooks and try to solve the problems in chapter thirty-one. You can hand in your solutions at the end of class, and I’ll check whether you’ve managed to learn anything.”

Staring at the teacher in disbelief for a moment - weren’t the original midterm and the revision enough to assess their knowledge? - Justin pulled out his book and began carefully working on the problems. Shit, he reflected as he endeavoured to print extra neatly, he really should’ve practised that ‘computer writing’ during the break.

The teen kept glancing at the wall clock as the minutes slowly ticked by, praying that Daphne would arrive before it turned eight-twenty.

8:07 and still no one else had entered the classroom. “I need to go,” the girl began whining at a low pitch.

At 8:14, Hobbs’ cheerleader girlfriend tumbled through the door with one of the other pom-pom girls. They scurried to the back of the classroom when Dixon glared at them and sat there in petrified silence.

No sign of Chris, but that was hardly surprising, the blond thought bitterly. Jocks like Hobbs got exemptions from many of the instructors, including Dixon. Without some creative assistance from the maths teacher, Justin doubted Chris could pass the calculus course at all. If Dixon could misread a ‘1’ as a ‘7’ on Justin’s exam, he could certainly do the same with Chris’ test so that it worked out in the athlete’s favour.

Three minutes later, another student entered the classroom, water from melting snow dripping off his coat. “Sorry,” he blathered, “my dad couldn’t get the car to start and then-” The late arrival quickly closed his trap when Dixon merely stared at him stonily, and sunk into a seat near the front of the room.

Fuck, Daphne wasn’t going to make it, Justin realized when more minutes elapsed, the second hand circling around until the clock read 8:21.

Dixon didn’t say anything, his angry gaze roving across the five students seated in front of him. When the teacher’s eyes speared him, Justin hastily looked down, his pencil scratching across the paper as he wrote down the answer to another problem.

“Mr Taylor, where’s your little _girlfriend_?” the teacher sneered.

Knowing he couldn’t afford to antagonise the homophobic jerk, or he’d likely end up in detention again, Justin gritted his teeth. “I’m sure Ms Chanders is on her way,” he replied politely.

At that moment, Daphne yanked open the door and rushed into the classroom, her damp hair curling wildly around her face. Two other equally disheveled students hastened in behind her.

“How thoughtful - you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence, Ms Chanders, Mr Antonich, and Ms Watson,” Dixon taunted the new arrivals. “I don’t know how you can expect to pass this class if you can’t be bothered to attend.”

“I tried to get here earlier, I-” Jessica Watson, a ginger, spluttered, her voice dying out in the face of Dixon’s withering glare.

“Spare me your feeble excuses,” the instructor demanded. “They won’t do you any good anyway, since I’m noting you down as absent.” He pulled the student roster toward himself and made three marks on it.

A despairing Daphne slumped into the seat next to Justin, lamenting, “I’m never going to pass this class.”

Justin only had time to send her a quick bolstering look before Dixon picked up the revision exams, slapping the stack of tests against the open palm of his other hand. “I’m disappointed,” he declared mockingly. “I expected your results to improve markedly after I gave you a second chance, but it doesn’t look as if any of you put much effort into doing better. To encourage you to study harder, I’ve decided there will be a test every Friday until the end of the semester.”

Groans came from around the room.

“I’d better hear some thank-yous,” Dixon chastised, “for sacrificing my time to help you like this. Otherwise, the lot of you will be undoubtedly retaking the class this summer in order to graduate. I’ve graciously agreed to teach an intensive session then.”

“Thank you, _Mr Dickhead_ ,” someone at the back of the room had the temerity to say.

This was a rare instance when Justin found himself grateful that the sadistic teacher was looking directly at him and could tell he wasn’t the wisecracker. Even so, he held himself as immobile as possible in the hope that Dixon wouldn’t unleash his ire on him.

“There _will_ ,” the instructor stated direfully, “be a special study session here in this classroom this coming Saturday at eight a.m. I expect everyone to attend. No exceptions. We’ll review until I’m sure all of you are capable of achieving at least a minimum _D-_ passing grade.”

Since Dixon was still staring at him, Justin didn’t dare protest. He didn’t need the fucking study session, he thought resentfully, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt his SAT preparations - he had been intending to study for those upcoming, all-important exams on Saturday morning anyway.

“But, I’m supposed to try on bridesmaids’ dresses for my cousin’s wedding!” one girl unwisely objected.

Transferring his baleful gaze to the bridesmaid-to-be, Dixon pulled out a test from the pile in his hands and read, “ _Farley, Vanna_ ,” with a gleefully evil look on his otherwise handsome face. Flapping the paper in the poor girl’s face, the maths teacher tsked, “A dreadful performance if I ever saw one. Perhaps you should reevaluate whether a school like ours is for you, Miss Farley. You might want to look into Pittsburgh’s beauty schools.”

When he had finally brought the girl nearly to tears, Dixon looked at the next paper in his hands and acquired a sour expression. “Taylor, Justin,” he sneered, eyes flitting over Justin’s test.

“I’m sure you did great,” Daph whispered to him, crossing her fingers.

The blond just nodded, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans.

“This was one of the weaker performances,” Dixon announced loudly, slapping the paper in question in front of Justin. “Mr Taylor has only managed to improve by one single percent point. Better luck next time, I suppose - you’re going to need it.”

As the arrogant teacher turned his back on him, Justin glared. What a load of crock, he thought; he didn’t need luck. Glancing at his test, he noticed there was no grade visible at the top of the page - Justin had to search for a good few seconds before he actually found the smallest ‘A’ he had ever seen at the very bottom of the second page.

Beneath the ‘A’ was an even tinier score of ‘97’. The teen flipped through the test again, trying to find where the points had been deducted, Finally, next to one problem, he discovered a note in small print, stating, ‘Non-standard solution’.

The fucker! Justin swore to himself. The result wasn’t incorrect, but Dixon had marked him down just because he’d gotten there in a way the instructor hadn’t expected. If that had happened with any other student, he fulminated, Dixon would be singing their praises. Heck, he’d probably give them extra points for figuring out the solution.

“Chanders, Daphne,” Dixon droned, causing Justin to look over as the teacher dangled a test in front of his friend. He couldn’t see the grade because the teacher had the test turned round to the blank backside, extending the torture. “You’d better find a new study partner if you really want to pass the SAT,” he jeered as he dropped the paper on her desk. “Your little _boyfriend_ clearly isn’t _up_ to the task.”

His face flushing, Justin had to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from backchatting. He’d been back at St James for less than an hour, and the homophobic teacher was already getting under his skin with his mean-spirited insinuations.

With Dixon’s body interposed between him and Daphne, Justin still couldn’t see anything as his friend turned her test over, but he thought he heard a whoosh of relief. Thank fuck. It must’ve been an improvement over the last time, regardless of what the instructor had intimated.

A few more students darted into the room shortly before the class was due to end, and Dixon kept everyone for five minutes after the bell rang, lecturing them about the Friday tests and the mandatory study session on Saturday. Justin didn’t have a chance to find out how Daphne had fared on the exam, Mr Dixon forestalling his exit from the room by calling out, “Your worksheets, Mr Taylor and Ms Brown. I’ll check them over tonight.”

Daphne mouthed, “See you later,” while Justin waited to hand in his worksheet, Justin nodding in acknowledgement as his friend hurried away to her psychology class.

“Miss Brown, this is completing unacceptable,” Dixon berated the girl, tossing the worksheet back to her. “You failed to solve a single problem.”

“I’m sorry,” the young woman whined, jiggling in place, “but I couldn’t concentrate because I needed to go so bad.”

“Bring the worksheet back tomorrow morning - completed.” the instructor sternly insisted.

The girl fled - presumably toward the restroom - and Justin handed over his worksheet.

“I suppose that’s the best I could hope for from you, Taylor,” Dixon stated in a bored tone, barely glancing at his worksheet as he dismissed the teen.

Once he had his back safely to the instructor, Justin rolled his eyes. As if any other student could have performed so many calculations in less than fifteen minutes, he smugly thought as he trotted toward his Latin class.

 

Justin had a more leisurely walk toward his next class later that morning after the Latin lesson was over, Mr Sullivan having dismissed the students on time. As he was passing the last one in a row of lockers that faced onto the hallway, he heard someone gasping for breath and glanced to the side. Hobbs was smiling maliciously at a younger student - the same frosh Justin’d rescued the week before the Thanksgiving break - and removing his knee from the kid’s midsection before pushing him down.

The blond looked around at the other students in the corridor, most of whom hadn’t even noticed what was happening. A more observant student just shrugged and walked on, clearly not wanting to get involved.

“Hey!” Justin shouted, “If you need your dick sucked, why don’t you ask your girlfriend?”

“You volunteering?” Hobbs sneered at Justin, fisting the younger student’s hair in his hand and banging the kid’s head into the locker.

“Why, Chris, I didn’t know you wanted me to be your ‘girl’,” Justin mocked, trying to distract the jock from his victim. “I’m afraid I don’t have the right equip-”

He cut off when he noticed Dixon approaching, the teacher acting as if nothing untoward had happened. Looking down at the kneeling student, Dixon questioned, “Did you trip and fall, young man?”

“Yeah,” the scrawny boy replied, his head bobbing up and down. He couldn’t move far, wincing as the athlete’s fingers pulled at the roots.

“I was just helping him up,” Chris averred with a smarmy smile for the maths instructor.

A few students had now stopped to watch the altercation, and the vice-principal could be heard calling, “What’s going on down there?”

“That’s very good of you, Mr Hobbs,” Dixon commended the athlete. The teacher then turned away, waving at the vice-principal to indicate that there was no problem.

The bully tugged the younger man into a standing position before finally letting go. With a kick to the trembling boy’s rear, Chris sent the lad stumbling in Justin’s direction. “Cocksuckers United!” he crowed.

Justin knew he shouldn’t aggravate the jock further, but he nevertheless taunted, “You must be the founding member.”

Chris’ scowl promised later retribution, but he stomped off without doing anything.

Much like the last time, the frosh had scuttled away as soon as he’d been freed, so Justin didn’t have an opportunity to warn him to be more cautious in the future.

Shrugging in resignation, the blond continued on toward his creative writing class, where he saw Daphne waiting outside the door. He walked over to her and the two friends started chatting, speculating about what the cafeteria might have on offer for lunch, when Justin noticed Hobbs and Dixon walking down the hall, the calculus instructor companionably clapping the athlete on the back.

“Asinus asinum fricat,” Justin remarked, eyeing the two men.

“Huh?” Daphne questioned, glancing around to see what Justin was looking at. Raising her eyebrows, she attempted a clumsy translation, “Asshole causes friction with asshole?”

Justin snorted, still eyeing the two men. “Sort of,” he agreed. “It loosely translates to ‘the jackass rubs the jackass’. It’s meant to describe two people who are obsequious to each other.”

“You mean they kiss each other’s ass, right?” Daph laughed. “You should just say that, Jus.”

The blond reddened, excusing himself, “Too much ancient literature and poetry has muddled my brain, sorry.”

His best friend shook her head fondly. “You’re doing some reading for the SAT, huh? Good for you.”

“Sure,” Justin joked. “You never know what questions there may be about Cicero, Ovid, and Virgil.”

“Cicero? Is that the French guy who’s got a hotel named after him?” she asked, scrunching up her nose.

Justin stared at her, speechless. “Wha?” he breathed out in disbelief. “I- no! Cicero wasn’t a French guy, he-”

Daphne started snickering softly, then giggling, and in the end burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Ha! You should’ve seen your face! You actually thought I was serious!”

“You... you-” the blond stuttered. “You got me,” he admitted finally, poking his friend in the ribs softly.

“How about trying some modern-day, creative writing?” Mr Crowley recommended, smirking as he held open the classroom door. The instructor had evidently overheard some of their banter.

The two friends looked at each other sheepishly before entering the classroom. “So, what are we doing today?” questioned Daphne, striking up a conversation with the teacher.

“We’ll take turns critiquing your midterm projects,” Crowley responded. It was his turn to look abashed as he muttered, “Although I’d rather not discuss what you saw during the delivery of your paper, Mr Taylor.”

“Uh, no need for that sir,” the teen spluttered, recalling both the awkwardness of Mrs Shy’s greeting when he’d knocked on the staffroom door and then Mr Crowley’s state of dishevelment.

“Good. Good. Just what I wanted to hear,” the teacher replied briskly as he followed them inside.

The three then sat in the otherwise empty room in an uncomfortable silence until the rest of the students started to trickle in a couple minutes later. When chatter filled the room, Justin leaned over to Daphne, whispering into her ear, “I hope I get to critique yours.”

“Why?”

“So that I can get revenge for that Cicero stunt you pulled,” the blond explained.

His best friend shot him a disbelieving look. “You serious? You’re acting like I killed your puppy; it was just a joke.”

“A stupid one,” Justin insisted. “You made me feel really bad for you because if you didn’t know who Cicero was, you would never pass the SAT. Now I want to show you what it’s like to feel betrayed by your best friend.”

Daphne looked confused. “Jus,” she pleaded. “It was just an innocent joke. I’m sorry if you-”

Justin couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. “Got you!” he chuckled. “Payback’s a bitch!”

The girl narrowed her eyes at him, fuming, “You won’t be on top for long, Jus,” which only made the blond laugh harder.

Crowley started parceling out the midterm papers then, and once the bell rang, the students quieted as they listened to his instructions on how to constructively critique one another’s work. Justin didn’t get Daphne’s essay, instead having to critique a rambling effort of one of the cheerleaders, in which there were more gel-pen headlines than there was substance.

Not wanting to completely throw the girl under the bus, he tried to come up with some positive points but in the end probably didn’t manage to save her from Crowley’s C minus.

Justin hoped his essay hadn’t been received equally as poorly. As the class ended, he glanced around in an attempt to discern who might’ve been reading it, but he didn’t have a clue.

“Please return the essays to me,” Crowley requested, “and I’ll review your comments later today. Tomorrow, I’ll return your papers, and we’ll discuss revising your work. We’ll continue to critique and revise over the next two weeks, and at the end of the term, you’ll hand in a revised essay that I’ll use to determine your final grade.”

“I wonder who got mine,” Daphne said as they headed downstairs to the cafeteria.

“It wasn’t me,” Justin said. “I was trying to figure out who was reading mine, but all I got was a sore neck from craning it around so much,” he jested.

“Whose did you get then?” Daph asked curiously. “And more importantly, was it any good?”

“It was pretty disjointed,” Justin revealed. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening, before confiding, “That blonde cheerleader wrote it. I’m surprised Crowley didn’t mark her essay down even more.”

“He must’ve been distracted by her giant bazookas,” Daphne joked. Glancing down at her chest, she sighed. “I wish she’d give me some of her excess.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “You have a naturally pretty face; you don’t need tits.”

“Says the man who likes cock.” Daph exasperatedly replied. “Straight men want big boobs, Jus. It’s the first place they look.”

“Yes,” Justin agreed before adding, “when the face doesn’t interest them.”

Daph shook her head. “You are such an idealist.”

Justin protested, “Hey, I noticed Brian’s face first, not his package.”

“I can’t compete with ‘The Face of God’,” his friend laughed. “And you certainly didn’t have any complaints about his other attributes.”

His member hardening in his pants as thoughts of Brian invaded his mind, the blond hastily redirected the conversation. “The right guy is going to appreciate your beautiful face and your brains, Daph,” he assured his friend.

Justin didn’t know what to make of the speculative look Daphne sent his way, but he forgot all about it as they neared the cafeteria. The door to the refectory swung open, the young woman screwing up her nose as they both got a look at the tray another student was carrying.

The blond stared at Daphne in dismay. “It can’t be-”

“-that horrid dill cream sauce with undercooked potatoes and hard-boiled egg.” his friend recited with him, looking like she was going to retch.

“Oh, man,” Justin moaned, “the sauce is disgusting; the egg whites are rubbery; and the potatoes are always stone cold.”

“Oh, wait!” Daph’s countenance brightened. “I have a package of Oreos that we can eat.”

“Thank fuck,” the blond uttered in relief. “You’ve saved the day again, Daph.”

Daphne grinned smugly. “Your turn to rescue us next time, Jus. In fact,” she frowned, “weren’t you go to make us sandwiches from the Thanksgiving leftovers?”

“There wasn’t anything left in the fridge after the garage sale yesterday,” Justin informed her.

The girl’s eyebrows rose in amazement. “I know you eat a lot, but-”

The blond huffed out a laugh. “We had so much food left on Thursday - even after we all stuffed ourselves silly - that we could barely close the fridge. But then the garage sale morphed into a bake sale too. By the end of it, the only thing left in the house was a box of stale cereal.”

“An Oreo lunch it is then,” Daphne stoically announced. “I expect lemon bars from the diner tomorrow, though.”

“You’ve got it,” Justin promised. “Listen, could you grab a couple seats for us? I want to quickly look in on Frau Rose, check that she made it in okay from her home in West Virginia.”

“You’d better make like the Road Runner with Wile E. Coyote nipping at his heels,” Daph teased, “or the Oreos will be gone when you return.”

“On my mark, get set, go!” Justin yelled, taking off at a run as his friend’s peals of laughter followed him.

Less than two minutes later, the somewhat out-of-breath teen reached the library. He leaned against the door jamb, inhaling deeply as he recovered from his mad sprint. He’d become rather out of shape since being kicked off the soccer team, he ruefully mused. The go-go dance gig helped keep him fit to some extent, but it was only two days a week, not at all the same as running around the soccer pitch six or seven days in a row.

“Justin?” Frau Rose called out from her desk, where she was working on the computer. “Why are you loitering in the doorway? You know you’re welcome here at any time.”

“Trying to catch my breath,” he admitted. “Daphne threatened to eat all the cookies if I didn’t return quickly.” He knew his friend wouldn’t do that, although she might pretend like she had - just to get a rise out of him.

“You mustn’t be eating in the cafeteria then,” the librarian remarked. “I can’t remember the last time they had something that tasty on the menu.”

“It’s only Oreos,” Justin disclosed. “If Daph hadn’t had the foresight to put a package in her rucksack, however, we’d be stuck with nothing.”

“That obnoxious a meal, is it?” Frau Rose asked.

“It’s that icky dill sauce around half-raw potatoes with an overcooked egg,” Justin said in a disgusted tone.

“That is one of the more abominable repasts St James has on its sadly limited menu,” the woman agreed. “I wish I had something more palatable to offer you and Daphne for lunch.”

“I didn’t come here to bum food off of you,” the blond hastily replied. “I just wanted to be sure you didn’t have any problems with your drive in this snowstorm.”

“How nice of you to check on me.” The teacher beamed at Justin. “The interstate was terribly congested, so what’s usually no more than a forty-five-minute drive took well over two hours. I didn’t open the library until nine-thirty this morning.”

Justin glanced out the window, where the snow appeared to be falling more thickly than before. “Will you have any problems getting home?” he inquired, still concerned about his favourite teacher.

“I’m planning to head out early,” the woman assured him, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I’m officially off at two o’clock since I open up at seven o’clock to serve early-bird scholars and faculty. I usually stay till three-thirty or four, but today I’m going to make an exception.”

The teen’s stomach emitted a noisy rumble right then, making Frau Rose laugh. “Off with you,” she ordered, her eyes twinkling. “You wouldn’t want Ms Chanders to gain weight from ingesting all those cookies.”

“I’ll let her know I’m saving her from that awful fate,” the blond laughed, waving at the librarian as he jogged back to the canteen at a slower pace than that at which he’d departed.

When he arrived at the cafeteria, it was to meet a glum-looking Daphne sitting at an empty table in the corner. “What’s up?” he asked her.

His best friend scrunched up her face in distress. “I forgot the Oreos at home,” she told him. “I put them on my bed before I went to brush my teeth after breakfast, and then I just left them there.”

“Oh,” Justin sighed in disappointment. “So I guess we’ll fast?”

“Nothing else to do,” Daph shrugged apologetically. “We can’t even go and get something from the vending machines outside, since the school’s not allowing us to go out during this weather.”

“Bummer,” Justin muttered, flopping down next to his friend. A few seconds later, his stomach rumbled. “Shut up, you beast,” he chided the insatiable organ. “I can’t feed you now.”

Daphne tittered. “You do realise you’re talking to a lump of tissue, right?”

Justin grabbed his midsection protectively, giving his friend his best offended look. “Quiet! He might hear you,” he lectured. “Poor thing is sensitive.”

“Like hell it is,” countered Daphne. “Don’t forget I saw you eat a whole bag of Cheetos, a bowl of cherries, and then follow it with Oreos and milk - all in one sitting.”

Justin’s stomach made itself known again, as if reacting to the girl’s words. “Nice, Daph,” he said sarcastically. “Tease him with ideas of food, why don’t you?”

Before she could come up with a retort, his friend’s own stomach joined the grumbling symphony. “Oops,” Daphne grinned. “Mine’s now angry too.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Justin suggested. “Maybe we’ll forget about how hungry we are.”

“Did you make it on time for calculus?” Daphne wondered. “Dixon didn’t seem to be riding your arse any more than usual.”

“Are you trying to make me hurl?” Justin complained. As if I’d let _Dickhead_ anywhere near my spectacular bum.”

His best friend chuckled. “Now that’s a visual,” she teased. “He’s not all that bad looking, you know?”

“His attitude makes him look like a troll,” the blond riposted. “There’s no way to ignore that. Would you want him to touch your tits?”

Daph tilted her head in consideration. “Hmm…”

Justin swatted her. “Are you serious or are you just pulling my leg again?”

“If it would raise my grade, it might just be worth it,” Daphne reflected.

Justin snorted. “Yeah, well… too bad for you that he’s a closeted fag. Has to be with how much he enjoys Hobbs being up his arse.”

The young woman tittered. “Then maybe you’d have a chance?” she suggested jokingly.

“I’ve already got an ‘A’ in the bag,” Justin boasted.

Daph sighed. “You’re lucky; I’m still worried I might flunk out.”

“How’d you do on the test?” Justin asked. “You still haven’t told me. You did improve, right?”

“A nice big C,” she announced, grinning. “I never thought I’d be this happy about getting a C but here I am, jolly as a rancher.”

“Are you expecting candy as a reward?” Justin quipped.

“Oh, shut up, Jus!” she remonstrated. “You’ll see, one day the phrase ‘jolly as a rancher’ will be a household saying.”

“Uh-huh,” the blond giggled. “Along with the tagline, ‘Learn to eat ‘Ranchers’ and you’ll be branded with a big, fat _C’_.”

“Yeah, right,” Daphne snickered. “Don’t give up your day job, Jus, because you’re no advertising genius.”

“Yes, I am,” he objected. “I’ve supplied Brian with the perfect name for his new ad agency.”

Daphne’s eyes glittered with interest. “Really? Gimme.”

“Can’t tell.” he pouted.

“What? Why not?” she whined.

“The name belongs to him now, so it’s proprietary information,” Justin explained. “If he doesn’t use it, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, scrunching up her nose. “Did he pay you for it? Because if not, shouldn’t it be yours still?”

“I suppose,” the blond allowed. “But I just wouldn’t feel right about it, you know?”

She folded her arms across her chest, pouting. “You just don’t want to tell me,” she complained. “Me, your best friend.”

Justin winced. “Don’t, Daph. You sound like Michael.”

“How can you say that?” the girl squawked. “I’m nothing like that prat!”

“ _I’m your best friend_ ,” Justin imitated Michael’s nasally whine.

“Ugh, fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll stop with the whinging. But you have to promise to tell me the name as soon as you can.”

“I already said I would,” Justin replied. “When have I ever gone back on a promise?”

Acquiring a queer expression on her face, Daphne assented, “That’s true.”

“Give over,” Justin protested. “What’s with the doubting look?”

“Well,” the girl drawled, her stomach rumbling, “you did promise to bring me a ham and turkey sandwich…”

“Circumstances beyond my control,” he muttered, his tummy emitting a sympathetic grumble.

“No more talk about food,” Daphne reminded him.

“Then it’s back to the joys of calculus,” Justin joked. “Seriously, though, congrats on improving your score so much. You have every right to be proud.”

“Thanks, I feel really jammy - it seemed to me like I really screwed up on that test,” she admitted.

“All that studying paid off; it usually does,” the blond smugly asserted.

“Yeah, but I can still get screwed over by the unexcused absences policy,” she complained. “If only Dixon wasn’t such a dick…”

Justin nodded. “Yeah, you better not have any more absences since just five will lose you a full grade,” he explained. “Maybe you should take the bus from now on?”

Daphne let out an annoyed breath. “I guess. I’ll have to take a bus on Saturday anyway, since my parents are both taking their own cars. Fucking study session,” she complained.

Justin shrugged. “I’m not exactly enthusiastic about it either, but it’s not gonna kill us. The weekly tests might actually help some of the students too.”

“Not everyone wants to write a hundred stupid tests, Jus. Some of us don’t like maths, you know?”

“Well,” Justin tilted his head. “It’s only really two Friday tests since the exam is on the fifteenth,” he informed her.

“What?” Daphne freaked out. “That’s way too soon!”

“You didn’t know?” Justin asked, surprised.

“Of course I knew,” she retorted. “But there’s a difference between knowing and _knowing_ , you know?”

Justin laughed. “Yeah, I _know_ ,” he said. “So, are we still up for studying on Wednesday?”

“Sure, as long as you stop talking about maths immediately,” Daphne agreed. “The diner again?”

Justin hmmed in affirmation absentmindedly.

“What?”

“Just _calculating_ ,” the blond jested.

“You’re so lame, Jus,” Daphne groaned, throwing a wadded-up napkin at her friend.

Justin caught the napkin and lobbed it back at Daph but - distracted by the view out the canteen windows - his aim was off, the napkin flying over her head.

Daphne hooted, “Lame!” again, balled up another napkin, and tossed it at the blond.

“Shit,” Justin commented, staring outside, barely noticing the missile bouncing off his nose and falling into his lap. “I can’t even see the spindly pine tree in the quad.”

Daphne looked in the same direction, gaping at the heavy snowfall, which obscured everything a few inches from the building. “Geesh, I hope my dad won’t have trouble getting back here to pick me up,” she fretted.

“Huh?” Justin asked. “I thought your mom was the one to ferry you to and from school.”

“She is,” Daphne muttered, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. “The weather doesn’t usually faze her, but she was a bit freaked out about driving me in this heavy snow, so my dad ended up giving me a ride. He had to go really slowly, though, what with the ice building up under the snow.”

“I barely got here on time,” Justin commiserated. “Thankfully, after I transferred, the bus ended up following right behind a snowplough. We may have been moving at a crawl, but at least we were moving, unlike the stalled cars on the side streets.” Contemplating the driving snow, he remarked, “I remember your neighborhood” - his neighborhood as well not so long ago, he thought a bit sadly - “having priority for snow removal.”

“Not this time,” Daphne shrugged. “The city was apparently overwhelmed by the severe conditions, so they concentrated all resources on the main roads. It was pretty impressive, really, the way my dad manoeuvred his BMW on the slick streets.”

“I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of the driveway,” the blond self-deprecatingly admitted.

“Me neither,” the girl agreed. “Bad enough having to shovel snow,” she declared, poker-faced.

“Har de har. Like you’ve ever shovelled snow!” Justin accused. Belatedly aware of the rolled-up napkin in his lap, he scooped it up and launched it at his friend, who was now cackling in mirth.

Daphne glanced toward the wall clock at the back of the cafeteria and whimpered, “Do we hafta go to physics? I’m sure I bombed that bloody midterm.”

“What do you mean by _bombed_?” Justin questioned as they got up and slung their backpacks over their shoulders. “Surely nothing like maths.”

His friend winced as she looked at him. “Uh, maybe?” she mumbled. “There goes my bonus.”

“Bonus?” the blond parroted. “Mr Horner didn’t offer anything that I can recall.”

“Ehm,” Daph flushed, “not Horner. My folks said they’d give me two Ben Franklins if I got an A or A-. I only get one for a B-range grade, however.”

Justin whistled enviously, teasing, “One Franklin isn’t so bad. He was supposed to be quite the ladies’ man.”

“Ugh, the only place Ben looks handsome is on a c-note,” his friend objected. Visibly wilting, she joked half-heartedly, “Dad’ll probably make me pay him a hundred dollars for any kind of C or two of them for a D.”

“That’ll never happen,” Justin asserted, knowing how much Mr Chanders doted on his daughter. “Your mum, now…” he trailed off.

“Yeah,” the unhappy girl responded. “She’s liable to ground me for the rest of the semester, especially if she finds out I’m struggling in calculus too.”

“Why don’t you up the ante?” the blond proposed. “Act all confident and tell them you want five Benjamins each for end-of-term A grades in calculus and physics and four for B grades. If we study our asses off, you should be able to get a B in each class. The final counts for the largest percentage of the final grade, after all.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Daph mused as they entered the physics classroom and settled in at their desks.

 A few minutes later, the bell having chimed the one o’clock hour, Mr Horner began returning their midterms. Attendance was fairly sparse, Justin noted, a number of students apparently opting to stay home for the entire day, given the snowstorm.

Unlike Dixon, the physics instructor didn’t belittle any of the students, simply offering a few words of encouragement where he deemed they were needed. “ _Relatively_ impressive, Mr Taylor,” the instructor drily remarked as he handed Justin his test.

The young man beamed as he looked down at the exam, which had a large _100%_ and an _A+_ at the top. Relative to what? he thought smugly.

He looked over at Daphne, who had face-planted onto her desk. “Well?” he hissed.

His friend turned her head and gave him a mournful look, tilting up her test, so that Justin could read _67%_ and a _D+_ along with a message, ‘I know you can do better, Ms Chanders.’

“It’ll be okay,” Justin mouthed at her. “We’ll study together.”

Daphne nodded, perking up a bit and opening her textbook as Horner stated, “Let’s review the theory of relativity.”

As they exited the classroom at the end of the hour, Daph clutched Justin’s arm and inquired, “You’re sure you can help me raise my grade to at least a B-? You just reminded me at lunch that there’s only three weeks left in the semester.”

“Positive,” he reassured his friend, “as long as-”

Hobbs’ cheerleader girlfriend interrupted, pushing Daphne aside. “If he’s gonna help anyone, it’s gonna be me,” she proclaimed.

Justin stared at the blonde pom-pom girl in shock, but then he rallied. “Sure,” he drawled, “have Chris drop you off at the Liberty Diner after eight tonight, and we can study together.”

“Lib... Liberty Diner?” the girl stuttered, looking utterly appalled. “Isn’t that where the cocksuckers, uh, I mean, uh, the fags go?”

“Dykes and trannies too,” Daphne helpfully chimed in. “Maybe you could find someone who’d like to have a threesome with you and Chris.”

“Nuh-uh,” the cheerleader denied. “Chris doesn’t want anyone except me.”

Daphne sniggered, patting the other girl on the back. “Enjoy living in the land of delusion.”

Chris’ girlfriend glared at them before demanding of Justin, “You can tutor me in the cafeteria at lunchtime.” Pointing at Daphne, she magnanimously added, “I’ll even let your little friend join us.”

“Nope,” Justin refused. “It’s the Liberty Diner or nothing. Now I’ve got to get to my last class.” He scooted around the cheerleader, who’d flushed an angry, mottled red. Leaving the outraged girl behind, he trotted down the hall toward the IT classroom, while Daphne headed off to her German lesson. He heaved a sigh of relief at getting rid of the annoying twit; she’d never dare set foot on Liberty Avenue.

 

While Justin was settling himself at one of the school computers, powering it up, Brian was pacing the length of his loft, sulking. He had spent the past two-and-a-half hours researching possible premises for his new business and had still come up empty in the end. It was like the brains of Pittsburgh’s realtors had been frozen by the cold weather. He’d called a couple of them, and they’d been completely unhelpful. One agent had claimed, “We don’t have any properties to show at the moment.” even though their website had three new listings. From another realtor, he’d gotten a prerecorded message, “The office is snowed in. Call back tomorrow.”

“Pussies,” Brian grumbled to himself. How did such milksops stay in business? The only good thing was that none of the properties he’d seen online were all that appealing. Most of the buildings had boring, cookie-cutter facades. He wanted something edgy that would make his agency stand out, but none of the listings he’d seen would do that. There had to be a defunct theater, an abandoned church, or something else _interesting_ out there.

Frustrated, he decided to head to the diner and put a bug in Debbie’s ear. She’d be more likely to come up with possibilities for him than realtors who couldn’t deal with a little snow. After dressing himself in a ridiculous number of layers so he’d keep warm - he ended up looking like a mummy, albeit a _hot_ one - he made his way downstairs.

Brian snarled when, after opening the door to his building, he discovered that the sidewalk hadn’t been cleared. “Fucking super,” he growled. Should’ve been a real estate agent, he thought; the bloke was that useless.

The adman trudged through the snow to his jeep, which he’d had to park three blocks away from his loft on Sunday evening. “Of fucking course,” he grouched, eyeing the vehicle, which had a snow bank piled up against the driver’s side. Murphy’s law was clearly against him, a city snowplow evidently having come through, heaping the snow against vehicles parked along the street.

“Fuck,” Brian groused again; he’d have to leg it to the diner. Turning up the collar of his coat to better protect his neck from the falling snowflakes, he was almost tempted to buy one of those Russian fur hats with the ear flaps. They had some weird name he couldn’t quite remember, although he thought ‘hunk’ or something like that was part of it. As he slogged through the snow, however, he decided against the hat - it would make him look like a grizzly bear. Reminded that he’d forgotten to check for stray hairs which the wax lady might’ve missed, he made a mental note to do so when he got home; no way did he want to be mistaken for any kind of bear.

It seemed to take him forever to reach the eatery, although it was probably no more than fifteen minutes. There was very little foot or vehicular traffic, the only other pedestrian so bundled up that Brian couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman - or even human for that matter.

After the brunet pushed open the door to the diner, he didn’t move for a moment, shutting his eyes and basking in the warmth of the place. “Aaah,” he moaned loudly.

“Are you having a fucking orgasm?” a well-known voice wisecracked. “Even if you are, you’d better shut the fucking door.”

Brian glared at Debbie through slitted eyes, but obligingly moved forward enough that the door swung closed behind him. Musing that the heat surrounding him was _almost_ as good as that to be found in a tight arse, he snarked, “You should know better than to interrupt a good climax.”

The redhead cackled, “Saved you from damp jeans, haven’t I? Knowing you, Buster, you ‘forgot’ to put on underwear.”

The adman smirked at his surrogate mother, shrugging in wry acknowledgement that she was correct.

“So what brings you out in this weather?” Deb inquired, as Brian seated himself on one of the green stools at the counter. “I doubt you’re keen on driving in these conditions. Most of queer Pittsburgh had the sense to stay home,” she added, waving a hand toward the nearly empty diner.

“Couldn’t drive if I wanted to,” Brian grumbled. “Idiot manning the local snowplough socked my car in.”

Her eyes twinkling wickedly, the waitress suggested, “Maybe you could fuck him into doing a better job.”

“With the way my luck’s going today, the guy’s a troll, or even worse… a dyke,” the brunet muttered, causing Debs to almost bust a gut laughing.

“Fuck, Brian, that look on your face,” Debbie gasped. “Gus has that same pout when he’s not getting his way.”

Brian grinned impishly, averring, “He has all his old man’s best qualities.”

“Holy fuck,” the woman chuckled, “you just referred to yourself as _old_.”

“C’mon, Debs,” the offended advertising exec protested, “‘old man’ is a synonym for ‘dad’.”

“Uh-huh,” Debbie agreed, “with emphasis on _old_.”

Admitting to himself that there was no way he was going to win this exchange, Brian took the upside-down cup from the saucer in front of him and turned it over, before lifting an eyebrow at the redhead.

“Yes?” Deb inquired in a dulcet tone.

Brian arched his brow higher and gestured toward the cup.

“What’s the magic word?” Debbie teased.

“Fuck?” Brian essayed.

The redhead chastisingly shook her index finger at the adman. “Try again, Kiddo.”

Since it didn’t look as if Debs was going to budge, Brian finally harrumphed, “Please.”

“Did that hurt?” Debbie asked as she removed the coffee carafe from the hotplate.

“Fuck, yeah,” the brunet groused, rubbing at his chest as if soothing a pain. He couldn’t quite suppress a smile, though, which undermined the intended snark.

Debbie set a full sugar canister in front of him, before reaching out and patting him on the cheek. “Jesus, Brian,” she remarked, “all you have to do is smile and bat those gorgeous hazels of yours, and you can have whatever you want.”

“Right now, I’d settle for coffee,” Brian drily retorted.

A crimson fingernail tapped against the sugar dispenser.

Sighing, Brian poured out just enough sugar to adequately sweeten the coffee.

Deb courteously decanted coffee into his cup until the liquid nearly reached the brim.

The adman batted his eyes at the redhead and smiled winningly. “Whatever I want?” he asked coyly.

“If it’s on the premises,” Debbie qualified her earlier statement.

“Huh.” Brian glanced around consideringly before shaking his head. “Too small,” he regretfully commented.

“What are you on about?” Debs questioned.

“These premises won’t do the trick,” the adman joked.

The redhead narrowed her eyes in irritation. “What for?”

“My new ad agency,” Brian clarified.

“Well,” Debbie adopted a serious expression, “you could have the manager’s office at the back of the diner; I hardly ever use it anyway. Since the way to a man’s heart - or pocketbook, in this case - is through his stomach, you should get plenty of high-rolling clients if we serve up our fine cuisine during your presentations.”

“Like I said, not enough space,” Brian quickly demurred, blenching at the notion of subjecting his clients to the diner’s carb-laden food.

“Gotcha!” Debs gloated.

Brian scowled at her. Fuck, he was really off his game today to have fallen for that pathetic ploy.

Obviously taking pity on him, the motherly woman patted him on the cheek again. “So you’re looking for property for your new business?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Brian acknowledged, “and there’s fuck all available from what I can tell. I need something at least somewhat avant-garde, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an ear to the ground for me.”

“Of course, Kiddo,” Debbie readily agreed. “Not even a mouse farts on Liberty Avenue that I don’t hear about it. “We’ll find you something innovative, just you wait and see.”

Glancing out the window and noticing the snow was coming down even harder, Brian determined he needed to fortify himself before heading back outside. He took his refilled coffee cup and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette over to one of the empty booths and settled in for awhile, absentmindedly nibbling on the lemon bar that Debbie dropped off at his table.

Hmm, he mused, it was already gone three o’clock, so it wouldn’t be long before Justin turned up for his shift. Maybe he could entice the boy into a quick shag in the men’s room and then follow it up with an all-night fuckfest at the loft.

 

Justin stared as his bus disappeared in the distance behind a curtain of falling snow. Well, shit, there went his ride home, he thought in frustration; how was he going to get home now?

Looking around the emptied out school parking lot, the blond cursed his bad luck. It just _had_ to happen on the day Daphne didn’t have a car with her. He paced back and forth in front of the bus stop, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn’t walk home, since that would take hours. And if he travelled Shanks’ mare, his body would probably be found frozen on the roadside months later when the snow finally melted, he self-pityingly brooded.

There wouldn’t be another bus for at least an hour - if then - given the stormy weather. Justin tucked his mittened hands into his armpits in a futile effort to warm up his fingers; the cheap mittens were nearly useless, so that made yet another thing he needed to buy once he had some spare cash. A coat that actually had some insulation would be nice too, but he remained determined to set aside most of his wages to repay Brian.

Fleetingly, he also wished he had a mobile so he could call someone to pick him up. Justin frowned in consternation, however, as he realised he had no idea who he could call. Debs was working; Vic had looked rather peaked this morning, so there was no way the teen would roust him out of the comfort of their home; Mr Chanders would never circle back to the school to pick _him_ up; and his former lover was still barely civil with him.

Justin brightened as he suddenly remembered the gruff detective’s promise to help him if he needed it. He hesitated, hating to bother the detective, but since he was fresh out of options, he jogged over to the nearby phone box to give the policeman a call. The teen searched through his pockets for coins, sighing in relief when he pulled out sufficient change. He cursed, though, when one of the dimes slipped through his numb fingers, scrabbling around on the icy sidewalk to find it.

Three tries later, he finally managed to insert the coins into their slots and waited as the phone rang and rang. Fuck, he worried, the call would probably end up going to voicemail, and Carl wouldn’t get the message till much later.

After the seventh ring, however, the call connected, a voice simply announcing, “Horvath.”

“Ehm, I’m really sorry to bother you, sir,” Justin rambled, “but I just didn’t know who else to call. The bus is gone, Debbie’s working, and no one else can help.”

“I take it this is Justin?” the copper good-naturedly teased. “And that you’ve just gotten out of school?”

“Uh, yeah,” the teen stuttered, embarrassed that he hadn’t even thought to identify himself.

“I gather you need a ride?” Horvath inquired.

Justin felt like a total dolt for not making himself clear. “Yeah,” he confirmed in an apologetic tone. “I know I shouldn’t be bothering you at work, sir; you’ve got far more important matters to attend to.” 

He was just about to tell the detective to forget it and try to hoof it home despite the inhospitable weather, when the copper assured him, “I’ll be there as soon as possible, son. It’s a slow day at the precinct; the criminal element is lying low in this weather that would freeze the balls off a pool table.”

The teen giggled at the witticism. He’d have to share it with Debbie later; she was bound to appreciate it. “My balls are already icicles and about to fall off,” Justin concurred, mortified when he realised what he’d just said.

The detective wasn’t offended, however, responding with a hearty chuckle. “Why don’t you wait inside St James?” he recommended. “You can watch for my car from there.”

“Sure,” Justin agreed. “Thanks again for coming to get me, sir.”

“Enough with the ‘sir’,” the policeman chided. “It’s Carl, remember?”

“Uh, right, Carl,” the teen awkwardly mumbled. It was going to take some getting used to before he’d be able to address the detective so familiarly.

Once he was off the phone, Justin looked for some more change so he could call the diner, but he didn’t have enough money. Irritated, he dialed the operator and asked to be patched through.

“Justin?” Kiki’s voice questioned moments later. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry about the collect call,” the teen apologised. “I’m going to be late for my shift because I missed the bus. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“No worries. The diner can handle the fifty-cent tab,” Kiks laughed. “There’s no reason to rush anyroad, since there are hardly any customers. Seems like lots of people stayed home to ride out the first really heavy snowfall of the season.”

“Ta. That makes me feel better about leaving you in the lurch,” Justin replied.

After hanging up, the blond trotted up the steps to St James, only to discover that the front doors had been locked. “Fuck,” he grumbled, shivering in the icy air, before heading back to the bus stop and huddling on the bench.

Half an hour later, Horvath’s car pulled up in front of him, Justin staggering slightly as he unbent his slender frame, stood up, and shuffled over to the vehicle. “Christ, that feels good,” he mumbled, his teeth chattering as he sank into the passenger seat, the warm air from the vents caressing his skin.

The detective notched up the heat, explaining, “It took longer than I expected to get here; the streets are a total mess.” As he carefully steered his car away from the curb, he remonstrated, “I thought you were going to wait inside, son.”

“I wanted to,” Justin defended himself, “but they must’ve locked up as soon as the last student left the building.”

“Don’t the faculty and administrators work till four or five o’clock?” Horvath queried sharply.

“During first period - that’s my calculus class - the instructor made a big deal about how St James would never shut down because of _a little snow_ , but I guess that doesn’t apply when the students aren’t around,” Justin cynically commented.

“Hypocrites,” the detective muttered under his breath, possibly not intending for Justin to hear. “Where to then?” he asked in a louder voice when he was sure he was securely back on the slippery road.

“The diner, I guess,” the teen hesitantly responded. “I’m late for my shift, although Kiki did say it doesn’t really matter since there aren’t many customers.” At that moment, his stomach emitted a thunderous rumble, causing him to blush profusely. “And I guess I could use some of Debbie’s lemon bars too,” he added sheepishly.

Carl shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “Lemon bars? That’s what you kids live off of these days?”

“Ehm, today’s cafeteria meal was absolutely revolting,” Justin explained. “Hardly anybody touched it.” As his stomach growled some more, he continued, “I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning either, what with leaving the house super early so I could catch a bus that would get me to school on time.”

The older man took his eyes off the road briefly, looking at Justin in shock. “You mean to tell me you haven’t eaten at all today? You’re going to give yourself some digestive problems if you screw with your body like that.” Shaking his head, he looked around. “We’re stopping for a normal, hot meal,” he decided resolutely.

Another loud growl from the teen’s stomach announced its approval of that idea. “Uh,” Justin turned even redder, “Ta. That sounds great, sir.” At the detective’s admonishing frown, he stuttered, “I mean, Carl.”

“How’s that restaurant over there?” the copper suggested after a few moments of driving quietly, nodding his head to a posh-looking establishment at the corner of Bayard Street. “It looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked the blond, before tagging on, “Most importantly, it’s open.”

“I’ve never been there,” Justin replied, “but I’m sure it’ll be good. _Any_ food sounds good at this point,” he stressed.

Pulling up to the curb carefully, minding the huge piles of snow everywhere, Carl turned off the car. “Let’s go then; I could use a bit of grub myself.”

The teen eagerly followed the copper into the fancy restaurant. They were greeted by a hostess, who guided them to a linen-covered table, handed them menus, and assured them that a server would be there shortly.

“Um,” Justin mumbled after opening the menu, stunned by the astronomical prices, “maybe we can go Dutch?”

Horvath snorted. “As if I’d even contemplate letting you pay, son.”

Squirming in his chair, the blond said, “I’m really not all that hungry, you know. Maybe I’ll just have a salad; this French one with goat cheese sounds good.” Naturally, his belly again rumbled loudly, making his blatant untruth apparent.

Horvath shrugged. “Sure,” he agreed. “As long as you get some real food afterwards.”

“Um, I think apples, cranberries, and cheese are real food,” Justin insisted, “and certainly healthy.”

“I disagree,” the cop said with a slight frown. “All that fruit is what I call ‘hungry food’. You’re going to feel full for all of five seconds and soon you’re hungry again.”

“Yeah, but…” the teen trailed off, before confessing in a low voice, “It’s not right for you to pay for me. I’ve already intruded on your day, and you’ve been kind enough to give me a ride, but-”

“Justin,” Carl interrupted him, leaning forward. His eyes were insistent as he continued, “You are a kid. You might be very mature for your age, working, living away from home… but all of that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a child. And children shouldn’t provide for themselves; that’s what adults are for.” He paused, before adding with a less serious face, “So shut up and let _me_ be the adult, ok?”

For a moment, Justin feared he might break down and cry at how _caring_ Horvath was. This must be how a _real_ father behaved, something the teen wasn’t used to. “Uh, okay,” he managed to get out in a reedy voice.

“Good, pick something you think you’ll like then,” he nodded towards the menu.

Since there wasn’t a single inexpensive item on the menu, the teen finally decided, “I’ll have the tri-tip with the scalloped potatoes.”

Carl hmmed, perusing his own leather-bound menu. “I’ll have the sesame ginger chicken,” he declared after careful consideration. “If it’s any good, I’ll have them pack some to go and bring it to Wen.”

“Is that a favourite of hers?” Justin asked.

“I think so?” Carl answered uncertainly. “Who really knows what she likes? She mostly lets everyone know when she hates something.”

“Haven’t you been partners for years?” the perplexed blond persisted. “You must have some idea of what she likes by now.”

Horvath chuckled softly. “I’m mostly joking, but she’s not really one for praise,” he explained. “Sesame ginger chicken doesn’t usually get any complaints, though.”

Justin grinned at the detective. “Sounds to me like she’s using a sort of reverse psychology to train you,” he jested.

“Well, today her strategy just made me want to leave the office, so I was glad when you called. She’s all kinds of pissed today.”

“Why?” Justin inquired, hoping for an entertaining bit of gossip.

Carl bit his lip, hesitating for a second, before revealing, “Got hurt on a call. Her ribs are bruised like hell, so she can’t do her usual morning Tai-Chi - leaves her in a perpetually bad mood.”

“Will she be okay?” the teen wondered. He couldn’t help feeling concerned, even though he knew the diminutive detective was as tough as nails.

“Yeah, she’s had a lot worse than that - always throwing herself in danger, that one,” the detective assured him. Then he disclosed, “Wasn’t her fault this time, though. She was chasing a suspect when one of the officers on the scene rammed into her accidentally - it threw her against a wall and made us lose the perp.”

“What’s she planning to do about him?” Justin asked, waiting with bated breath for the detective to divulge more details.

The cop shrugged. “We’ll get the guy eventually, don’t wo- oh, you meant about the officer,” Carl chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Well, Officer Healy is in for a treat, because you know what Ming is going to do?”

“What?” Justin breathed out.

“Nothing,” Horvath deadpanned. “She’s gonna let him stew in his misery, just waiting for her to finally strike. Works like a charm.”

“Yikes!” the blond exclaimed. “I’d hate to be in that guy’s shoes. Detective Wen must be frustrated, however, not to have anyone to, uh, you know, intimidate in the meantime.”

“She’ll let it out in a boxing ring,” the older man shrugged the matter off. “Now enough about Ming’s sore ribs, how are _you_ doing?”

The waiter came over, interrupting their conversation, and both men placed their orders before Justin belatedly responded to Carl’s question. “I’m counting down the days till the Christmas break,” the teenager stated seriously. “One week off wasn’t enough, especially with the maths instructor terrorising the students first thing this morning. He tore into the ones who were late - as if they shouldn’t have let a little obstacle like a snowstorm prevent them from making it to class on time - and then he disparaged everyone’s efforts on the calculus revision midterm.”

Raising his eyebrows, Horvath asked, “And how did you do?”

“Not bad, although I only improved by one percentage point over the original exam,” Justin volunteered, scowling as he recalled Dixon’s latest trickery.

“Maths was never my strongest subject, so I’d have been satisfied with a C,” Carl remarked. “Is it like that for you?”

“Uh, not exactly,” the teen stammered. He hadn’t meant to mislead the policemen into thinking he’d done poorly on the test; now it would seem like bragging if he revealed that he’d gotten an A. “It’s just that the teacher is always on my case because I’m gay,” he explained bitterly. “He marks me down by deliberately misreading a ‘1’ as a ‘7’ or for reaching the solution in a way he never thought of.”

“Maybe he’s just hard on you because he thinks you can do better?” Carl suggested mildly. “It might not have anything to do with your sexuality.”

“Oh, it’s definitely because I’m queer,” Justin countered. “He has selective hearing and vision, somehow never catching it when Hobbs or the other jocks call me derogatory names in class or bully me outside of class. Dixon’s really clever with his behaviour and insinuations, though, never quite crossing the line in supporting the ‘macho’ students or outright slandering me.”

The detective narrowed his eyes at the teen. “Is Hobbs the student you mentioned to me and Wen in conjunction with your torched locker?”

Discussing Chris and his cohorts - and their constant bullying - almost made Justin lose his appetite for the succulent sirloin which had been delivered a few minutes earlier. “Yeah,” he replied, his shoulders slumping in discouragement. “But even though it was right before the start of classes, with the locker still smouldering, no one will say they saw or heard anything.”

“That may change after Wen has a chat with Dr Perkins. My conversation with him went nowhere, so she will be paying the principal a visit soon.” Carl disclosed, a slight smile on his face.

“I’m sure she’ll put the fear of Wen, uh, God, uh, the law, into Jerk- that is, Perkins,” Justin fumbled his response, delighted by the idea of the scary Asian woman taking the headmaster down a peg or two.

“The ‘fear of Wen’,” Horvath chuckled, before sobering. “There’s not a person in homicide,” he asserted, “from the rawest recruit on up to the captain, that hasn’t experienced that.”

The teen entertained himself with a vision of Jerkins pissing his pants when confronted by Detective Wen... and wondered whether the Chinese detective might like a sketch caricaturing that meeting.

“What other classes are you taking?” Horvath inquired. “Anything you particularly enjoy?”

Justin mulled that over for a few minutes, before replying honestly, “There’s some interesting subject matter in all my classes, but I suppose the one I like the best is IT. We get to work pretty independently, with guidance from the instructor. It’ll look good on my college applications too, since I want to study art.”

“Any kind of art in particular? I already know you can sketch, judging from that, er, drawing of Brian I saw at Thanksgiving.” Horvath reddened as he referenced the nude drawing above Justin’s Latin poem, which lauded the beauty of Brain’s body. “I could see it was very good, although I tried not to study it too closely.”

“Erm.” Justin squirmed in his chair again. He would never have shown _that_ drawing to the bluff detective, if he’d had a choice. Contemplating the courses he could take at university, however, the teen quickly forgot his embarrassment, babbling, “I want to experiment and see what suits me best, so I’d like to take a broad range of classes during my freshman year. I not only want to try out different mediums with painting, I also want to learn more about animation and graphic design, as well as illustration, film production, maybe some photography…”

“What other art-related classes are you taking besides IT?” the detective questioned. “You must be hard at work assembling your portfolio.”

The blond’s excitement fizzled as he divulged, “No other art courses.” At the detective’s baffled expression, he elucidated, “I’m lucky to be taking IT. My dad always insisted that I take courses that would fast track me toward an MBA at Dartmouth. I, um, kind of hoodwinked him into letting me take the IT course, by not revealing that it focuses on art rather than business applications.”

The blond had been wolfing down his food while they talked, barely taking the time to savor the food because he’d been so hungry. He looked down forlornly at his now empty plate, shocked to realise he’d eaten the last bite of his steak and potatoes.

After staring in amazement at the plate that Justin had polished clean in a very short time, Carl offered, “Here, have some of mine. I’ve been putting on a bit of timber lately anyway, so it’s best I don’t eat so much.”

“If you’re sure…” the teen hesitantly replied, nudging his plate toward the copper. Horvath promptly scooped up some rice and deposited it on Justin’s plate, following that with several chunks of the sesame chicken, before pushing the dish back toward the younger man.

Horvath commented wryly, “It’s been too many years since I was a teenager, although I vaguely remember that I was a bottomless pit back then. My mum used to complain that my brother and I had her running to the grocery every day because we ploughed through the food so fast.”

A pang of guilt briefly assaulted Justin as he worried that he was eating Debbie and Vic out of house and home. Then, remembering how Vic had said that she always cooked for an army, even when it was just for the two of them, the teen relaxed. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I really landed in the clover, living with Deb and Vic. There’s always shedloads of food, way more than even I can eat.”

“That’s the way it should be,” Horvath approved before returning to their previous discussion. “So tell me, what else are you doing in terms of college preparation?”

“Well, I’ve got the SAT coming up soon,” Justin disclosed, “so most of my spare time will be spent studying for those.”

“Hmm, it’s been donkey’s years since I was in high school,” Carl said. “What do those tests look like nowadays?”

“Probably not all that different,” Justin shrugged. “The maths sections concentrate on algebra, geometry, and some trigonometry. I’ve had all those and I’m doing pretty well at mastering calculus, so I don’t anticipate any problems. As far as English, it’s all about reading comprehension on a variety of topics, plus grammar, vocabulary, and editing skills. There’s also an optional essay, to demonstrate you know how to build a persuasive argument.”

“Will you be writing an essay?” Horvath wondered.

The teenager rolled his eyes. “Yeah, along with every other senior student at St James. Since we were freshmen, the teachers have been drumming into our heads that we need to hone our writing skills if we’re serious about going to college. So, really, it’s mandatory, not optional.”

“It’s sounds to me as though you’re already all set to do well on the tests,” Carl remarked. “Are you worried for some reason that you won’t achieve good scores?”

“I should say I want to do as well as possible for my own satisfaction,” Justin confessed, “and that’s partly true. Mainly, though,” the lad cheekily added, “I want to outscore Daphne. Bragging rights, you know?”

The detective chuckled. “A little competition isn’t a bad thing, as long as you won’t be a sore loser if she does better than you.”

“Not even if she rubs it in mercilessly,” Justin promised, “which she definitely would do.”

Carl laughed again. “That’s the right attitude, son.”

Justin beamed at the older man. Made up that Carl was taking such an interest in him, he thought for the second time this afternoon that this must be what it felt like to have a dad. The blond couldn’t recall Craig ever taking much interest in his son’s achievements, even before he found out Justin was gay. He immediately dismissed the wish that Carl were actually his dad, however, fearing the man would be weirded out if he knew what Justin was thinking.

Most likely seeing Justin’s strange expression, Carl raised his eyebrows questioningly. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothing?” the teen hurriedly replied, making it sound like a question.

The cop narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Uh-huh,” he uttered skeptically, searching Justin’s face for something before deciding to change the subject, “How’s the chicken?”

“Yummy,” the teen claimed, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth. “Are you gonna bring some to your partner?”

Horvath shook his head. “It was good but it didn’t exactly taste authentic; I don’t think Ming would appreciate it. I’ll just buy her some of those lemon bars you mentioned.”

 

While Justin was chowing down with Carl, Brian was getting roused by insistent nudging to his shoulder. “Stop shaking me,” he complained. He had been sitting slumped in his booth, enjoying a deliciously erotic daydream. No more than fifteen minutes could’ve passed, he thought, resenting being so rudely manhandled.

“Brian, wake up,” Debbie insisted.

“Wasn’t asleep,” the brunet protested, trying to focus on Debs through bleary eyes.

“Yeah, right,” Debbie refuted. “The cute little wheezing sound wasn’t you snoring then?”

“I don’t do _cute_ ,” Brian objected, “and I don’t snore either.”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “My shift is over, and I’m going home. I thought you might want to head back to the loft before it gets any later.”

Brian frowned as he looked around. The diner was even more deserted than it had been earlier, with the blond brat nowhere in sight. “Where’s Justin?” he asked.

“He’s been delay-” Debbie began before the brunet cut her off.

“Delayed? By what?” Brian snorted. “I heard on the radio that all the schools closed down because of the severe weather. Is the twink busy painting his toenails?”

“Liked that red nail polish on Justin, did’ya?” the woman questioned knowingly.

Brian shifted uneasily. In his _day_ dream, the blond’s fingernails had been tinted red, and he’d had on that damned corset…

“Anyhow,” Deb continued, “the school shutdown doesn’t apply to private institutions - those can decide themselves whether to close or not, and St James is apparently famous for never closing for anything. The roads are completely fucked up, so it may be a while still before Justin gets here.

“Fuck,” the brunet muttered testily. There went his plans to fuck the twink - again. At this rate, his dick was going to wither and fall off from lack of use.

Debbie raised her eyebrows, teasing, “Why? Did you need Justin for something?”

“Nah,” Brian tried to play it off as if he’d merely been curious, “I just thought he might be slacking off. Otherwise, he’d be in my face, like always.”

Debbie cackled. “In your face? Sure, Honey, just tell yourself that.”

Bloody woman knew him too well, Brian thought. Manoeuvring his lanky frame out of the booth, he stretched, his bones popping. “Maybe I will head home,” he remarked in an indifferent tone, “and check the real estate listings one more time. Who knows? One of those lazy realtors might have actually done a bit of work and listed something worth checking out.”

As he stepped out of the diner with the redhead, reaching back to turn up the collar of his coat, an icicle broke off from the top of the door, fell onto the the material Brian was flipping up, and slithered down his back. “Fucking perfect!” the adman yelled, whirling around like a dervish.

Debbie burst out laughing and provided no sympathy whatsoever, waving as she walked away toward her house.

Might as well go neck a bottle of Beam, the brunet decided. It wasn’t as though he’d be necking anything else.

 

Back at the restaurant, Carl looked at all the empty dishes on their table, and asked, “You ready to go?”

“Sure. I shouldn’t leave Kiki on her lonesome any longer.” Justin responded.

Raising an index finger to subtly motion for the waiter, Carl pulled out his wallet. “Let’s pay and we’ll be on our way then.”

As they walked out to the car, the teen inquired hesitantly, “Would you be interested in looking at more of my sketches? I’d like to have your opinion on my character studies; I’ve been trying to capture people from all walks of life.”

The copper’s eyes brightened. “Of course!” he agreed readily, then paused, adding, “As long as there are no more nudes, that is.”

“Would you object to naked women?” Justin teased.

“I don’t want to see any nudes from you, son,” Carl replied, immediately looking around to see if anyone had heard him. Thankfully, the street was empty. “Well, that sounded weird,” he commented. “Could’ve been worse - I could’ve said I _wanted_ to see some.”

“You’ll have to pick up the latest issue of _Playboy_ if you change your mind anyway,” Justin quipped. “I only draw naked men.” Specifically, naked Brian, he thought to himself.

“I can understand that, I suppose,” admitted Horvath. “I wouldn’t want to draw something I don’t find attractive either. However, I think you’re going to have to draw women - even naked ones - once you’re in arts school. I imagine it’s part of the curriculum.”

“I’ll manage somehow,” Justin sighed as he climbed into the detective’s car, “although I’m not looking forward to dealing with those floppy bits.”

“Floppy bits?” Carl asked with a chuckle, turning a key in the ignition.

The teen screwed up his face and spat out, “Their tits. They’re all gross and squishy. I mean, they’re literally just sacks of fat - like a camel has! What’s the point of them anyhow? I’ve yet to meet the woman who’s happy with what she’s got.”

Scrunching up his nose, the detective admitted, “Sounds horrible when you say it like that.” Then, looking sideways at Justin, he continued, “But as for their use - you should know that if you’re such a good student.”

“Of course, I know.” Justin protested. “But it’s nothing I want to su-” He abruptly stopped speaking, mortified at what he’d been about to say.

“Right, let’s change the topic,” Carl decided resolutely, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Heck, yes!” the teen vehemently agreed. How they’d ended up talking about boobs, he had no clue. Stupid false biological advertising, he thought bitterly. Quickly searching for something to say, he remembered Carl had said he’d look into his stalker trouble. “Anything new about the alleged stalker?” he asked.

“Right before you called this afternoon, I completed my unofficial investigation,” Carl disclosed. “One of my mates in IT helped me track the buyer of Brian’s mattress, and based on that plus talking to various parties at Babylon, I was able to determine that there was no stalker, that it was all wild gossip.”

“You mean this whole stalker business was just a case of gossiping fags making up stories?” Justin inquired, becoming angry. “I’ve been scared out of my wits since Thanksgiving just because some queens were bored and started rumours?” His voice had escalated as he spoke, until he was almost yelling.

“Calm down, son,” Carl advised. “Rumours do get blown out of proportion sometimes. You should just be glad there’s no danger.”

“You’re right,” the blond acknowledged, muttering, “At least I won’t have to be accompanied everywhere I go any more.”

“I’m partly responsible for that,” Carl revealed. “I talked with Debbie and then made arrangements with Officer Reyes to drive you home from Babylon. I won’t apologise, though - it’s far better to be safe than sorry.”

“Um, thanks, Carl,” Justin mumbled. “I should’ve said that right off instead of griping about being escorted to and from Babylon. I really am grateful for all your help.”

“You’re welcome,” the older man muttered, slowly pulling to a stop at a red light - the car sliding several more metres even after the wheels had stopped. “Jesus, these fucking roads,” he swore.

“Fuck. I’m glad I’m not driving,” the teen breathed out. “I’d have rear-ended someone by now.”

“It’s not usually this bad,” Horvath reassured Justin, who was gripping the dash with white-knuckled fingers. “Once city maintenance gets its shit together, the roads will be more navigable.”

The detective’s car slowly made its way through the icy Pittsburgh streets until it arrived at Liberty Avenue. Surprisingly, the road was much better than elsewhere. “Well, I’ll be damned,” commented Horvath. “They already cleared it here.”

Justin looked around in surprise. “Weird. Why would they-” he trailed off as he noticed a group of queens dragging a wheelbarrow with a couple large white bags on it, pouring rock salt onto the street out of one of them. “Oh, I get it now,” he told Carl, pointing at the group.

The policeman huffed in laughter. “Are they wearing heels?” he questioned, staring at the men in wigs, wearing long fur coats and knee-high, high- heeled boots.

Justin laughed. “Yeah, I guess we’ve figured out why they’re salting the street - it’s hard to walk on ice when your feet are on thin needles.”

Finally stopping in front of the Liberty diner, Carl commented in a low voice, “A bunch of crazy women.”

The blond teenager felt a pang of pride at how readily the older man called the transvestites ‘women’; it seemed old dogs _could_ learn new tricks after all.

“Thank you for the ride,” Justin said appreciatively, unclasping his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. “And the meal,” he added with a smile.

The copper gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome,” he told him, before undoing his own seatbelt. “I’m coming in with you to buy those lemon bars,” he reminded the blond.

“Oh, right.” Justin opened the car door, and immediately a violent shiver racked his whole body. “Fuck that’s cold,” he complained. “How did you say it? It would freeze the balls off a pool table?”

Carl chuckled. “Yeah, it’s like Siberia out there. Maybe you should buy yourself an ushanka,” he suggested.

“A what?” asked Justin. “Ush- ush-anchor?”

“Ushanka,” the policeman repeated. “That furry Russian hat with ear flaps.”

Justin scrunched up his nose. “Why give it such a weird name?”

Carl raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s derived from a Russian word for ‘ear’, I believe. Now come on, let’s get inside or we’ll really freeze out here.”

 

It was much later that day that found Justin sitting at the small wooden desk in his room, finishing up his homework. It was nearing nine o’clock, and mouthwatering smells were beginning to leave the kitchen as Debbie cooked downstairs. Closing his physics textbook, the blond teen stretched his back and rose from the uncomfortable chair.

His stomach grumbled. He shook his head in amusement, looking down at his belly - if his life were a book, today’s chapter would be called ‘Of grumbling stomachs and frozen balls’. He decided to go and keep Debbie company as Vic had announced he was tired earlier that evening and was already in bed.

“Finished your school work?” Debbie asked as soon as he came downstairs.

“Yeah, it wasn’t really difficult. Whatcha cooking?” he asked with a cheeky grin.

Debs tittered. “You forgot the ‘good looking’ part, Sunshine,” she complained jokingly.

Justin shrugged. “I figured I shouldn’t flirt with a taken woman - I actually like Detective Horvath; I wouldn’t want to step on his toes.”

“Oh shush, you,” the redheaded woman blushed. “We’re not dating.”

“Yet,” the teenager added, making a kissy face at his surrogate mother. Then he went a little more serious and told her, “He’s a really great guy, though - he actually cares, you know?”

Debbie gave him a soft look. “That’s great, Kiddo. What did you two talk about anyway?”

Shrugging, he answered nonchalantly, “Just school and stuff.” Then, remembering, he exclaimed, “Oh! He did say that the whole mattress stalker situation was just a result of unruly gossip. Apparently some bored queens just basically made it all up.”

Had he thought Debbie would be angry on his behalf for uselessly worrying, he’d have been wrong. “That’s a relief,” she sighed with a large grin. “I’m so glad, Sunshine!”

He rubbed at his forehead. “Yeah. Well, I was a little pissed at first, but now I’m just relieved - I won’t have to constantly look over my shoulder anymore.”

Debbie gave him a tight side-hug. “I know, Honey. It’s good in a way, though, if it’s taught you to be more cautious,” she added. “There are all sorts of nutjobs out there.”

“Yeah,” Justin agreed, remembering the jizz-o-graph weirdo who’d approached him at Babylon. He hoped he’d seen the last of that creep.

“Pour yourself some milk and sit down,” the redhead ordered. “This goulash is just about ready.”

The teen readily complied, quickly inhaling one bowl of the stew once it was set in front of him before starting on a second.

“Except for that _minor_ snow problem, how was your first day back at school?” Debbie asked.

Justin shrugged. “Dickhead Dixon figured out a way to knock off a couple points on my maths midterm, but he actually did write an _A_ in tiny print at the bottom of one page.”

“I’m proud of you, Kiddo,” the motherly woman said, “persevering in spite of all the hatred at that school.”

The blond flushed, made a bit uncomfortable by the praise. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice about going, not if he wanted to get into university. “Um, Dixon has called a mandatory calculus study session for this coming Saturday morning, so I won’t be able to work my usual shift. Will that cause problems for you?”

“Nah, you were only going to work a couple of hours anyway, what with preparing for your SAT.” Debbie replied. “It’ll be no problem to schedule someone else.”

“I’d rather work,” Justin complained. “I hate losing the income.”

“A coupla hours at the diner wouldn’t make much difference in paying back Brian,” the redhead observed.

“I know,” the teenager concurred. “But there’s so many things I’d like to buy…”

“If there’s something you need, you’d better tell me,” Debs insisted in a sharp tone. “We’ll figure out a way to get it, no matter how much it costs.”

“I don’t _need_ new underwear,” Justin joked, “but I sure would like to replace my tighty whities.” No way was he going to complain to his surrogate mother about his threadbare mittens or his inadequate shoewear.

“Your cute tush looks better without undies,” the redhead teased, laughing when Justin turned beet red.

The flustered blond was at a loss for a suitable retort, so he mopped up the remainder of his goulash with a piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth.

Later, as he crawled into bed, the snow continuing to sheet down outside his bedroom window, Justin decided he’d better catch an even earlier bus the next morning - no way was he going to let Dickhead gloat over his tardiness - even though it meant sacrificing an hour of sleep. He set the alarm accordingly, scowling at the dopey Captain Astro sticker affixed to the clock as he did so.

The blond then rolled over onto his side, reached into the drawer of the nightstand, and pulled out _Bob_ . He was so tuckered out, however, that he’d barely turned back over when he fell sound asleep, cradling his _Battery Operated Brian_ to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget our FanDoc (There are new contests so be sure to check it out): https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! to our wonderful, often cheeky, readers. :) We have an update for you at last - one year to the day after we posted the first chapter.

“Thank fuck,” Brian grunted when the doorbell to the loft rang again, still glowering at a hapless Theodore, who’d arrived all of ten minutes ago.

The accountant rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Brian,” he expostulated, “how could I have known th-”

No longer listening, the brunet yanked open the door to the loft and strode cross the narrow space to the elevator. He tapped one bare foot impatiently against the cold cement as he waited for the clunky lift to make its way up to his floor. Once it arrived, he immediately opened the grate, relieved Cynthia of the cardboard container she was holding, turned on his heel, and marched back into his apartment.

“Good to see you too, boss,” the blonde woman snarked, following after Brian.

Holding up a hand to forestall further commentary, Brian quickly removed the lid from a cup marked with a ‘B’. He took a sip, grimaced, added more sugar, sipped again, and moaned, “Fuck, that’s good.”

Behind him, he heard Cynthia say, “Hi. I’m Cynthia Moore.”

“Ted Schmidt,” came the prompt response.

“I know that look.” the adman’s assistant commiserated. “You’ve been dealing with growly bear Brian.”

Theodore had the temerity to laugh. “He has been like a bear with a wounded paw,” he agreed, “pissing and moaning since I got here.”

Tired of people referring to him as a bear, the brunet emitted a suspiciously growly noise. He was entitled to be in a foul mood. Before he’d jumped in the shower this morning, he’d turned on his fancy DeLonghi coffee machine, planning to inhale a cup or two before Cynthia and Ted arrived to strategize about his new agency. He padded out to the kitchen a bit later, only to discover that the carafe had cracked, resulting in coffee spilling onto the counter and dripping down the cupboards before pooling on the floor.

Brian had knelt in a wet spot while mopping up the mess, which necessitated changing his slacks. Worst of all, he’d been left jonesing for caffeine. He made a quick call to Cynthia, barking at her to stop at Starbucks on the way to the loft. Naturally enough, when the buzzer had rung the first time, he thought it was his assistant and ended up taking out his ire on Ted. “Where’s my latte?” he demanded of the bewildered man when he’d realised the accountant wasn’t Cynthia.

“Fucking expensive piece of shit!” Brian now complained, kicking the wastebasket which contained the defective coffee maker. He couldn’t even blame this fiasco on the blond brat. Sure, his original coffee machine - a well-engineered Krups - had been among the burgled items, but Brian was the idiot who’d waffled about what he should replace it with. He fell for the spiel the salesman had given him while he was rogering the bloke in the warehouse. As an adman, he should’ve known better than to think with his little head; he vowed to himself that it wouldn’t happen again. Now he was going to have to make time to visit the kitchen store again which, since the snow had yet to abate, meant driving across the Pitts and contending with the snarled traffic.

“Brian, what’s this?” Cynthia inquired, pulling the tall brunet out of his morose thoughts.

“Oh, I recognize that,” Ted declared in an excited voice as Brian turned around.

“Fuck!” Brian muttered. Afflicted by nostalgia the night before, he’d been leafing through photos and other mementos, stuff he normally kept hidden in the compartment underneath his bed. Now his sharp-eyed friends were scrutinizing the framed drawing he’d left on the coffee table.

“It’s a remarkable likeness,” Cynthia giggled, “but the proportions seem rather exaggerated in a key area.”

Brian scowled. Nothing about his proportions was exaggerated.

“I think the artist was ‘under the influence’ when he drew that _anaconda_ ,” Ted commented drily. “Even the best-tailored trousers wouldn’t allow room for it.”

“‘Under the influence?” the blonde asked. “You mean drugs?”

“Under the Kinney influence,” the accountant clarified. “It led the young man to misrepresent his subject.”

“Aha.” Cynthia smirked. “Would that young man be-”

Cutting the woman off before she could complete her question, Brian snapped, “You’re here to work, not to admire Ju- er, my etchings.”

The adman’s fleeting hope that they hadn’t noticed his slip of the tongue withered when both Theodore and Cynthia cast knowing glances at him. Fortunately, neither of them said anything.

“I got a cup for you as well,” the blonde informed Ted, leading him over to the kitchen counter, removing a cup on which a C had been stenciled, and gesturing toward the container. “I didn’t know how you take it...”

Both of them ignored Brian’s mocking, “He sucks it down.”

“...so yours is black.” Cynthia concluded. “There’s containers of half-and-half as well as low-fat milk, depending on your preference. Brian _should_ have enough sugar, but just in case, I grabbed a few packets at the caff.”

“Ta,” Ted responded gratefully. “No sugar but I do like a dash of cream in my coffee. Um, which one’s mine?” he asked, confused by the extra cup in the cardboard holder.

“Oh, the one without an initial on it,” the blonde responded, turning around one of the cups so that a black ‘B’ could be seen. “Brian’s an absolute bear until he’s downed at least two coffees, so I got a second one for him.”

“That means hands off, Theodore,” the maligned brunet grouched, sticking an arm between the two of them and removing the cup to safety.

“You wouldn’t want it anyway,” Cynthia assured Ted. “It’s got enough sugar in it to give you at least three cavities.”

“Christ, it’s too early for the Abbott and Costello act,” Brian scolded. “Could we get down to brass tacks and save the comedy for later?”

As the adman sauntered over to his computer desk, Cyn hissed at Ted, “Who are you? Abbott or Costello?”

“Dunno. Who’s on first?”

Rolling his eyes at their juvenile behaviour, Brian gestured toward the coffee table, which was now memento-free. “You lot settle in there,” he instructed. “I’ve run a multi-outlet surge protector over there for you to plug in your laptops, so for fuck’s sake, don’t trip over the cord.”

Over the next few hours, the team talked about how to proceed, with Ted churning out cost analysis spreadsheets and Cynthia entering meetings and deadlines into an AOL calendaring program.

“So the loft will be our base of operations?” Ted queried, tilting his head from side to side to ease his strained neck muscles.

“Yeah,” Brian confirmed, “but we won’t meet any clients here unless absolutely necessary. There are usually conference rooms available at local hotels.”

Cynthia groaned as she straightened up from crouching over her laptop. “If we’re going to meet here every weekday morning to touch base and bring each other up to date, we need a better work surface,” she complained.

“Acquiring a new dining table and chairs - which should suffice for a temporary work station - is on my to-do list for this afternoon,” the adman promised, “along with replacing that piece-of-shit coffee maker.”

“Tell you what,” his assistant offered. “I know your taste, so why don’t I go shopping for you?”

Brian narrowed his eyes in consideration. As far as the coffee machine, Cynthia could hardly make a worse choice than he had. The table though…

he’d hate to be saddled with something that didn’t meet his standards for fuck knew how long. All his funds were being earmarked for his new agency, so it wasn’t like he’d be able to replace the dining set anytime soon.

“Can you see the gerbils scurrying?” Ted joked, nudging Cynthia.

“Ssh,” she cautioned, smirking as she held an index finger to her lips. “This is a major decision for Mr Control Freak Kinney.”

Brian pointed a finger at her. “Just for that, no, you can’t help me pick out a fucking table.”

The blonde snorted. “I don’t want to help you pick out a ‘fucking’ table, Brian, but rather a dining table.”

The brunet didn’t manage to hold back a snort. “One doesn’t exclude the other,” he commented, suggestively looking at the table Ted and Cynthia were sitting at.

Ted, who’d just taken a swallow of coffee, almost did a spit-take. “You didn’t!” he blurted, an appalled look on his face as he stared at the table.

Brian outright laughed. “Did you really think for one second there’s a single inch of this loft that hasn’t had jizz on it at one point or another?”

“Jesus,” the accountant gasped. “That’s fast work since you acquired your new furnishings so recently.”

Not wanting to get into the details, the younger man shrugged the comment off and walked over to the kitchen. He was thirsty, and he was sure there was still a bottle or two of guava juice in his fridge. “Want some?” he asked, holding up a half-full bottle.

Cynthia scrunched up her nose. “No thanks. You’ve probably been drinking straight from that container.”

With a wicked grin, Brian proved her right, knocking back a healthy swig. He then gave his assistant a tongue-in-cheek smile. “Is the little girl afraid I have cooties?”

“Hardly,” the blonde huffed. “I just prefer not to have your spit in my drink.”

“I don’t backwash,” Brian denied with an offended look.

“He really doesn’t,” Ted joked. “He’s a champion swallower.”

The younger brunet immediately agreed, “Damn right, I am! Now if you don’t want any juice, get back to work. Enough chatter.”

“How about you first tell us the name of your agency?” the accountant suggested.

“Surely you’ve decided to go with AdStud.” Cynthia asserted, her eyes twinkling with merriment.

“Do I look brain dead?” Brian deadpanned.

The blonde woman regarded him assessingly. “Not so much since you had your dose of sugar and caffeine.”

Raising his eyebrows, Brian told her, “Then there’s your answer.”

“Christ, Brian,” Ted carped. “We’re going to be your employees. Don’t we have a right to know the name?”

An idea popping into his head, the former Ryder’s ad exec allowed, “I won’t tell you, but I can show you the paper Justin gave me, and you can see for yourself.”

Ted frowned. “What? You don’t know how to pronounce it or something?” he asked.

Rolling his eyes, he pulled the paper with the name Justin had suggested out of his pocket. “Do you want to see it or not?”

“Yes!” Cynthia immediately cried. “Come on, gimme!”

Waving the small paper in front of their faces for barely a second, he stuffed it back into his pocket. “There.”

“Oh, come on, Brian!” Ted loudly protested. “Enough with the teasing.”

The adman was tempted to torture them for at least a couple more days, but going by the mutinous looks on their faces, he might lose their services if he did that. Slowly drawing the paper out of his pocket again, he dangled it in front of them.

“Wow, that’s really clever,” Cynthia breathed out in awe. “Simple but really catchy.”

“Incredible,” Ted concurred. “I can’t believe how Justin came up with that on the fly.”

Brian shrugged. “Twat’s clever,” he muttered. “He’s got an IQ like 135 or something.”

Cynthia smirked at her boss. “So it’s because of his IQ that you asked him to help out?”

“I didn’t ask him!” he immediately defended himself. “He just gave it to me by himself.”

“Yeah,” Ted snorted. “Like you weren’t daring him to come up with a name.”

The younger man shrugged and grinned. He _was_ good at getting the best out of people.

“You know,” Cynthia mused, “we’re going to need artists, and we don’t have anyone in mind yet. Maybe Justin would like to freelance for us?” With a humorous gleam in her eyes, she added, “Unless you prefer to poach Brad and Bob from Ryder.”

Brian couldn’t prevent a shudder at the notion of those two incompetent numskulls working for him. “Fuck, no!” he vetoed. “They can’t even draw a dog that doesn’t look like it has the mange.”

“Whereas Justin…” Ted drawled meaningfully.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Yes, Theodore, the brat knows how to draw.” Then sighing heavily, he allowed, “I suppose we could ask him to do some work for us if we’re in need of some healthy and anatomically correct dogs or something.”

Cynthia looked happier about his pronouncement than she had any right to. “That’s great; the lad’s a sweetheart,” she noted.

The brunet narrowed his eyes at her. “How would you know?” he asked. “I don’t remember you two ever meeting.”

His secretary just shrugged secretively. “You hear things,” she explained vaguely.

Ted’s eyes twinkled as he repeated, “Things? Like the lad’s name groaned lusti-”

“Enough, Schmidt, or you’re going to be fired before you’re properly hired,” Brian threatened, glaring at the older man.

The accountant simply shrugged, a lopsided smile on his face, evidently not in the least intimidated.

“Growly bear,” Cynthia opined sagely.

Ignoring his insubordinate employees, Brian sauntered over to his desk, sat down, and stared at his computer screen. Dammit. He missed the teenager and, despite his negligence in regard to the burglary, he wanted him back, maybe for more than just a fuck. Made uneasy by that notion but glad all the same to have a reasonable excuse to approach Justin, he begrudgingly muttered, “I may have made a mistake in kicking the brat out. It would be more _convenient_ to have him in the loft if he’s going to be working for the agency.”

Cynthia nodded in approval but didn’t say anything, apparently succumbing to a coughing fit, while noises suspiciously like giggles escaped.

“That’s great, Brian,” Ted enthused. “So you’ll ask Justin about freelancing for us?”

“Yeah,” the adman grunted. He then sat up straighter, a sly smile on his lips as he imagined convincing the boy to work for him by fucking him. Heck, he decided, he could manage that without really trying.

“Not bad,” Cynthia unashamedly stole Brian’s usual approprobation. Turning to Ted, she joshed, “ _I Don’t Know_ is no longer on third; it’s Justin.”

Chuckling, the accountant quipped, “Um, I think that’s actually _Who’s_ on first.”

“Given that our boss would be _Home Base_ -” Cynthia began, when Brian cut her off. Fuck. He didn’t want to listen to more speculation on _that_ topic.

Attempting to appear indifferent, the adman snarked, “Don’t give up your day jobs. You two would never make it on stage.”

Thankful when his minions momentarily fell silent, he then proceeded to warn them, “The agency name’s not to be disseminated for now. I’d like to wait as long as possible.”

“Yeah.” Ted nodded. “You’ll need to register the name and establish the agency as a legal entity.”

“That’s where Melanie will come in handy,” Brian agreed. “We should probably have her firm, JKL, on retainer for legal matters, with Melanie as our primary contact.”

“Good idea,” Cynthia assented. “She sure as heck saved your bacon with Ryder.”

“Once in a while, a bulldyke attorney does come in handy,” the advertising exec acknowledged with a wry chuckle.

“Once we’re recorded as a named legal entity,” Ted volunteered, “I’ll take care of registering the agency with the IRS and the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue.”

Brian drily interjected, “That’s where having an accountant comes in handy…”

“Chief Financial Officer,” the older man primly retorted.

“We can negotiate your title, Theodore,” the adman affirmed. “Your salary, however, is another matter entirely.”

“It had better be generous,” Ted joked, “if you don’t want me to cook the books.” When the younger man scowled at him, he cheekily amended, “Don’t worry. None of that till we’re raking in the millions, I promise. Boy Scout’s honour.”

“Christ. Were you really a Boy Scout?” Brian questioned as he looked at the accountant’s three upraised fingers.

“Until I was thirteen,” Ted confided. “But then I was caught kissing one of the other scouts…”

Brian winced. “Fuck. I bet that didn’t end well.”

“Got the shit kicked out of me,” Ted admitted. “Tommy, though, escaped without a mark, since he claimed I’d attacked him.”

“Jesus,” Cynthia breathed out.

The older man shrugged. “I grew up fast, and I learned a valuable lesson about being cautious.”

Brian exchanged a look of complete understanding with his friend.

“Anyway,” Ted continued, “like I said, I can handle easily handle the tax registration.”

Cynthia chimed in, “I can help with the paperwork for whatever licenses and permits we’ll need.”

“Most likely a building permit,” Ted noted.

“Except for the minor issue of actually _having_ a building,” the adman scoffed. “None of the paltry real estate listings are worth a look.”

“Hmm, maybe Ben will know of a place,” Ted suggested. “We could ask him over dinner.”

“We’re not looking for student housing, Theodore,” Brian chastised. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to rile his friend, especially now that the normally mild-mannered accountant had found his balls and was asserting himself more and more.

An obviously miffed Ted glared at the adman. “He’s a professor, Brian, not a student, and he has connections throughout the city. So, he may very well know of a site that would be perfect for the agency.”

The younger brunet grinned and held up one hand placatingly. “All right, I concede. We’ll ask Ben.”

Nonplussed, Ted gaped at Brian, his mouth open.

“Good on you, _Abbott_ !” Cynthia chuckled. “Between us - and Justin - we’ll keep _Home Base_ in line.”

“Now all we have to figure out, _Costello,_ ” Ted jested, “is _What’s_ on second, and the name of _I Don’t Know_ on third.”

Brian yawned ostentatiously, remonstrating, “You two wise guys are overplaying that schtick.”

“Nope,” Cynthia demurred with a wicked smile. “We haven’t even completed the first inning… eight to go.”

Just as Brian feared he’d be reduced to begging for mercy, Ted looked at his watch and exclaimed, “Dammit! We’re supposed to meet Ben for an early dinner in ten minutes. We’ll never make in on time in this weather. We’re going to be late!”

“Christ. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Brian commanded. “Use your brain - and your mobile - and give the man a call. Let him know we’ll be a little late.”

“More like a _lot_ late,” Ted grumbled as he pulled out his phone, moving over to the bank of windows for a bit of privacy.

“I’ll just get going,” Cynthia declared brightly, “and leave you men to handle your drama.”

With her eyes sparkling and her shoulders shaking, Brian suspected his assistant was suppressing a fit of laughter. “The drama is all Ted’s,” he insisted. “I’ve never acted like that.”

“Uh-huh,” the blonde woman replied mockingly as Brian helped her into her coat. “Never… except every time a certain blond teenager was mentioned.”

“That wasn’t drama,” Brian retorted. “I was understandably irate in each of those instances.”

Cynthia patted him on the arm, as she condescendingly reiterated, “Uh-huh.” She then pulled on her gloves and asked, between snickers, “See you here tomorrow at nine?”

Brushing aside her inexplicable levity, Brian confirmed, “Yeah,” pulling open the door for her.

“Bye, _Home Base_ ,” the exasperating blonde teased, a broad smile on her face as she moved the grate and stepped into the lift.

While he waited for Ted to wind up the phone call - wondering how it could possibly take so long to confirm they’d be there in a few minutes - Brian powered down his computer and neatly arranged his notes from the morning’s meeting.

He overheard his friend state in a relieved tone, “Your final class today was cancelled because of the heavy snowfall? That’s great, Ben. That means we’ll have plenty of time to eat.” After a brief pause, he confirmed, “We’re on our way. We’ll be there before they start serving dinner.”

“Come on, Brian,” Ted urged, closing the cover of his cell phone and grabbing his coat. “Ben’s waiting for us at the Chef’s Table on the Carnegie Mellon campus, but if we don’t want to lose our reservation, we need to get there pronto. Shake a leg, would’ya?”

“Unless you drive like a little old lady, we’ll be there in plenty of time, Schmidt,” the irritated adman remonstrated.

“I’m driving?” the older man queried in surprise as they clambered down the stairs. “Unless you’re out of your gourd, you’re always the one behind the wheel.”

“Since you nicked my parking karma, you can drive,” Brian magnanimously declared.

“That’s not gonna work to recapture the parking karma,” Ted cautioned. “It’s mine and I’m not giving it up.”

“We’ll see,” the adman sceptically observed as they approached Theodore’s sedan, which was - of course - parked smack dab in front of his building. He pouted slightly as he pondered how he might snatch his karma back from the accountant. “Huh,” he grunted. “I didn’t realize your car was a Mercedes.”

Ted rolled his eyes. “I’ve been driving this car for years.”

“I guess I thought it was a Ford or something,” Brian muttered.

Motioning toward the prominent, three-pointed star, Ted quipped, “That Mercedes emblem is difficult to see.”

“Ehm, I think you must’ve been parked behind a Ford… or a Chrysler, the few times I’ve seen your car,” Brian lamely replied. Fuck, it was beyond embarrassing to mistake a Mercedes for a mundane American automobile.

Thankfully, Ted didn’t needle him about his egregious blunder. Instead, after Brian slid into the passenger seat, he remained silent, first concentrating on easing the car out of the space and then competently manoeuvring it along the slippery, snow-covered streets.

Neither man spoke for a few minutes, and Brian was rather taken aback at how relaxed he felt as Ted chauffeured him toward the Carnegie Mellon campus. No inane chatter as there would have been if Michael were in the car with them. The only other person who he’d been in a car with for any stretch of time was Justin, and that only rarely; the blond muppet was ridiculously independent and usually insisted on taking the bus. The boy had, however, more than once asked to hone his driving skills by getting behind the wheel of Brian’s jeep, which he was reluctant to allow.

One morning, to allow for shower sex and still get Justin to school on time, the brunet recollected intimating that he would let the teen practice driving his jeep in exchange for a blow job. The blow job had been stellar - peeved drivers honking their horns while Brian sat through two changes of green light at a major intersection - but Justin never received his compensation with the burglary happening just a few days later. He hadn’t outright promised, still he couldn’t help but feel that he’d reneged on a deal… Hmm, there must be a way to fix that, he ruminated.

The ad exec knew he’d have no difficulty persuading the blond brat both to be his fuck buddy and to freelance for his agency; therefore, it might also be _convenient_ for the lad use his jeep on occasion. Before he’d let the teen loose with his prized vehicle, though, Justin would have to become accustomed to driving in adverse conditions. Brian doubted he’d be a good teacher since he admittedly lacked patience; Theodore, on the other hand, might be just the right person. It seemed that his driving skills were _almost_ as good as Brian’s, although the younger man thought Ted might be driving a trifle fast, given the ice and snow on the roads. He worried briefly that his friend was reacting to the barb about driving like an old lady, but Ted was still able to stop on a dime, without skidding, as the upcoming streetlight turned red.

He’d just opened his mouth to broach his idea, when Ted announced, “I can hand in my resignation to Wertshafter tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Temporarily setting aside the notion of Ted teaching Justin to drive in winter weather, Brian averred, “We’ve got a fuckton of work to do, so the sooner, the better. How long is the required notice period?”

“Two weeks, but I’ve got a shedload of vacation time,” the older man responded. “Even if I take the notice period as vacation, they’ll still have to pay me out for the excess.”

Brian wondered, “Won’t they want you to work at least part of that time to train your replacement?”

“I doubt it.” Ted chuckled sardonically. “Old Man Wertshafter has recently been wandering around the firm and popping into everyone’s offices at odd times because he suspects the employees are watching porn on their computers.” With a one-shouldered shrug, Ted admitted, “He’s right about me, but I only did that at lunch and on my breaks.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Brian asserted.

“For anyone except a straitlaced fogey like Wertshafter,” Ted agreed. “Anyway, shortly after he started his inspections, he caught one of the straight guys watching porn and, even though it was the bloke’s lunch hour, Mr Wertshafter fired his ass.”

“That’s an extreme reaction to a natural activity,” Brian declared. “Men think about sex all the time.”

Ted shook his head in resignation as he turned onto Forbes Avenue. “Wertshafter’s too dried up to remember that straight men think about sex every twenty-eight seconds, while for gay men...”

“It’s every nine seconds,” Brian and Ted chorused together.

“After my colleague was booted out,” Ted continued, “I didn’t dare jack off to porn in the office.”

“What’d you do?” Brian asked curiously. “Visit the can every hour?”

“Yep,” Ted confirmed. “Of course, that prompted Wertshafter to ask whether I had a bladder problem.”

“Ouch. Quite the thorny, ehm, _horny_ dilemma.” Brian sympathised with a chuckle.

“Thankfully,” Ted concluded, “I’ll no longer have to feign suffering from a never-ending, mysterious infection.”

“Maybe I should put a rider in the standard employee contract that masturbating while watching porn is one of the perks of working for me,” Brian joked.

Ted burst out laughing. “I wouldn’t put it past you to do that, Bri.”

“It would certainly test new employees’ mettle,” Brian flippantly mused. “Provided they read the contract before signing - and they’d be foolish not to at least do that - I’d know they either didn’t pay attention to that detail, or it would otherwise be revealing of their character. One person might be too chickenshit to mention it, another embarrassed, and a third amused by the unusual job benefit.”

“Um, you do realise that some of those new employees whose character you’d be evaluating will be female, right?” the accountant enquired, shuddering as he tightly gripped the steering wheel. “Hissy fits would almost certainly ensue.”

“It was just a fleeting thought,” Brian hastily replied. “No female hysterics allowed in my office!”

“Right,” Ted concurred with a wry smile. “The only permitted queen-outs are yours.”

Brian was about to protest that he never queened out, but was distracted when he realized that they’d reached CMU, and that Ted was easily navigating his way across the campus.

“How the fuck do you know where we’re going?” he speculated. “You can’t possibly remember Ben’s directions so exactly.”

“I didn’t need directions,” Ted smugly declared. “This is my alma mater.”

How the fuck hadn’t he known that? Brian wondered. Ted had been preparing his taxes for years; surely he should have known where the man went to university. “You got your bachelor’s degree from CMU?” he double-checked.

“And my MBA with a concentration in accounting,” Ted clarified.

Brian let out a whistle of admiration. An MBA from the Tepper School of Business was no small accomplishment. “Fuck,” he marveled, “that probably rivals my MBA in marketing from the Smeal College of Business.”

“Actually,” the older man stated in a pedantic tone, “Tepper is ranked six places above Smeal nationwide.”

“What the fuck” - Brian wanted to smack himself for sounding like a broken record - “have you been doing working at a two-bit firm like Wertshafter?”

“I needed a job,” Ted explained slowly, as if to an imbecile, “and Wertshafter had an opening.”

“Jesus, Theodore, you should be the head of the accounting department by now,” the adman expostulated.

“Well, I’m about to become your CFO,” Ted observed, “so I’d say I’ve reached that pinnacle.”

At a loss for a comeback, Brian simply grunted, “Huh.” Moments later, he again reiterated, “What the fuck?” as his friend pulled into a visitor parking spot - the only free space - in front of one of the residence halls. “No way am I eating cafeteria food.”

“This from the man who eats at the diner at least once a day,” Ted muttered. “No need to quee- ah, that is, raise a reasonable objection,” the older man pacificied him. “The Chef’s Table is located inside Resnik House.”

Ignoring Ted’s snide mumble, the advertising exec commented, “What a bizarre location for an upscale restaurant.”

“It’s near Gesling Stadium,” Ted noted. “The administration probably wanted a handy locale where they could wine and dine wealthy supporters of Mellon’s major sports programmes.”

Brian shrugged in acknowledgement. As they got out of the car, he queried, “Provided Wertshafter accepts your resignation, you’re ready to start working for me right away, even though I don’t have a contract for you to sign?”

They walked side-by-side toward the entrance to Resnik House, Ted verifying, “That’s right.” He held out a gloved hand toward Brian, prompting, “We’re both men of our word, so why don’t we shake on it?”

An actual gentleman’s agreement, Brian thought, the concept seeming almost foreign after the way he’d been betrayed at Ryder. He’d been foolish to believe Marty’s say-so that he was grooming Brian to become his partner.

Ted had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his hand still outstretched, and was looking at him with a wry smile, as if he were privy to Brian’s thoughts. The adman felt honoured to be trusted to such an extent by Ted, but rather than say anything and risk sounding like a mushy lesbian, he simply stuck out his hand and shook on it.

As he opened the door for Brian to enter the building, Ted commented, “Listen, I’m pretty sure Ben reserved a table for us at the Chef’s Table because he wants to make a good impression. I’ve never been here before - it only opened a couple years ago - but it’s supposed to have some of the best cuisine in the city.”

“Like that’d be difficult,” Brian interrupted. “This is _the Pitts_ , after all.”

“Now who’s the comedian?” Ted complained. “C’mon Brian, this place is really exclusive; it’s only open on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and reservations usually have to be made far in advance. Ben called in a favour from a friend to get us in.”

“I promise not to eat with my fingers or chew with my mouth open. Will that do?” the younger man teased.

“For Christ’s sake, I know you’re not Mikey.” Ted replied as they neared the restaurant. “I’m just worried that you’ll scare Ben off. I really like this guy - he might even be _the one_. Stop that!” he demanded when Brian looked at him askance. “I know you don’t believe in romance, but I do. So, just… don’t scare him off. Okay?”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Brian said solemnly. “I’ll even pass on fucking the waiter.”

With a rueful chuckle, Ted acknowledged, “That’ll have to suffice, I suppose.”

Brian was surprised to discover that every table was occupied when they entered the Chef’s Table. “Huh,” he grunted, “you weren’t kidding about this place being popular.”

“Can I help you?” a young woman in a natty uniform - probably a student - greeted them from the lectern where she was stationed.

“Ted Schmidt and Brian Kinney. We’re meeting Benjamin Bruckner,” Ted responded. “He’s expecting us.”

“This way, please.” She motioned for them to follow her, and then confided with a wide smile, “Professor Bruckner has stopped at the service desk three times in the last half hour to check whether you’d arrived yet, Mr Schmidt. I’ve never known him to be so impatient.”

Since Ted appeared to have been struck speechless, Brian asked, “You know Professor Bruckner?”

“Of course!” the girl exclaimed. “He’s one of the most popular - not to mention hot- uh, I mean, handsome - professors on campus. I sure wish he batted for my team,” she said, a dreamy expression on her face.

“Mmm,” Ted murmured, an almost equally besotted look in his eyes, “I’m glad he doesn’t.”

Brian had to bite his tongue to hold back a snarky comment about _both_ of them being _silly girls_ as they neared a table in a windowed alcove. He frowned as the lone occupant glanced over at them, his familiar face lighting up with a broad smile when he espied Ted. Brian’s frown deepened when he recognised the man as one of his past tricks. Damn. They’d fucked at the White Party a few years ago, and it had been bloody _hot_. Except for Justin, Ben was probably the best fuck Brian had ever had.

Shaking his head slightly, the brunet stud decided to act as though he’d never met Ben. Mentioning the incident would only make Ted jealous for no reason, and he had promised himself he’d be supportive of his friend’s new relationship - no matter how sappy or cringy it turned out to be.

As he made that decision, the hostess announced, “Your guests are here, Professor Bruckner.”

Ben didn’t respond, still beaming at Ted.

The young woman giggled, handed three menus to Brian, and told him that a server would be with them shortly.

“I’m sorry,” Ben apologized, finally tearing his eyes away from Ted to greet Brian. “I’m Ben-” He stopped short, staring at Brian in shock. “Oh, uh, hi, we’ve met before...” he stuttered.

“You have?” a perplexed Ted inquired, looking rather hurt. “How… when did you meet?”

Both Ben and Brian chuckled.

“Um, we didn’t exactly exchange names or anything,” Ben divulged. “You know,” he stated awkwardly, “it was just a, uh, a…”

“Physical exchange?” Brian offered helpfully.

“Exactly,” the professor gratefully acknowledged.

“You fucked,” Ted concluded, a weird expression briefly crossing his face.

Dammit, Brian thought. This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen - for Ted to be hurt. He cursed the professor’s bleeding heart for having felt it was necessary to be honest with his boyfriend.

“Theodore,” Ben murmured gently, reaching out to clasp Ted’s hand in his own.

The accountant huffed a soft laugh. “I shouldn’t really be surprised,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, a hot gay guy like you? Of course, Brian fucked you…”

“That’s all it was, though,” Ben insisted. “A White Party fuck. Fun, but completely meaningless.”

Brian nodded eagerly. “Completely,” he agreed. “Absolutely insignificant.”

“Hmm,” Ted made an unconvinced sound.

“Listen, you remember when you met Justin for the first time?” Brian asked.

“Huh?” Ted responded, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. “Sure. Why?”

“We were at Woody’s, and the brat was stalking me. Do you recall what you said?” Brian asked, prodding Ted to see the parallel between the two situations.

Ted blinked, his brow furrowing. “Uh, that was too long ago,” he admitted.

“You claimed, ‘That kid’s _hot_. I’d like to tap that ass.” Brian disclosed to Ben’s obvious amusement.

“I did?” Ted squeaked, blushing.

“Uh-huh,” Brian affirmed.

“See, it’s a natural instinct when one hot gay man meets another,” Ben claimed.

“You… you really think _I’m_ hot,” Ted said in disbelief.

Brian began chuckling. “He really does, Theodore,” he asserted. “I now recall where I recently saw your hunky professor. It was at Debbie’s garage sale, and Ben was blatantly ogling _you_.”

“Only you,” Ben concurred. “I was utterly blown away by how sexy you looked when you danced to that mock-up of _In the Navy_.

“The only one I could see was Justin, all tarted up in that fucking corset,” Brian quietly confessed. “It was like watching an accident happen - you just can’t take your eyes away.”

“I guess I don’t need to worry about you guys hooking up again.” Ted let out a relieved sigh, finally starting to relax.

Brian raised his eyebrows. “You know my policy on repeats,” he confirmed.

Ben grinned. “And mine on monogamy,” he promised, giving Ted a tight, one-armed hug.

Since he kind of liked the stupidly happy look on his friend’s face, Brian refrained from muttering an acerbic ‘monotony’ in response to the dreaded M-word.

“So,” Ben said, clapping his hands together once, “now that that’s out of the way, are we ready to go and order?”

“It’s not like we’ve had a chance to look at the menu,” Brian drily retorted, “but I do know I could use a shot of Beam.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You know exactly what I meant. Just for that, I should not let you look at the menu at all and just order whatever I see fit.”

Stymied for a comeback after being so neatly put in his place, Brian was glad when the waiter approached their table and inquired, “Would you like to hear our specials today?”

As the young man rattled off the specials - both the swordfish and the sirloin sounded particularly appealing - Brian caught the waiter sending flirtatious glances at Ben. For all that the server took notice of them, he and Ted might as well not have been at the table. Brian was puzzled at being so utterly ignored, until it dawned on him that the kid must be in Ben’s class and attempting to flirt his way to a good grade.

Brian’s certainty that the young man would otherwise have been all over him was shaken, however, when Ted leaned over and mildly teased, “Now you know what it feels like, not to be the cynosure of all eyes.”

“He’s obviously one of Ben’s students,” Brian informed Ted, “sucking up to raise his grade.”

“I don’t think so,” the accountant disagreed. “The kid hasn’t mentioned coursework at all.”

Ted and Brian grimaced at one another as Ben began extolling the delights of tofu to the server, the student nodding in vehement agreement.

“Fuck,” the adman griped, “I’d rather eat carbs after seven than ingest tofu turkey or some other wannabe-real-food soybean crap.”

“Soya beans are kinda slimy, as well as tasteless,” the accountant concurred, scrunching up his nose in disgust.

“Oops.” Brian laughed when his friend uttered that remark just as the server and Ben stopped talking.

Ben laughed good-naturedly too. “I hope to change your mind about tofu when you come over for dinner, Theodore. I cook a mean tofu stir-fry.”

Shrugging in acknowledgment of his faux pas, Ted conceded, “I’ll try it, but only because _you’ll_ be the chef. The couple of times I’ve eaten tofu, it really was quite…” He paused, searching for the most descriptive word, before settling on “...blech.”

Ugh, poor Ted, having to sacrifice his taste buds like that, the younger brunet reflected. If Brian had been remotely interested in Ben as more than a one-time trick, being fed soybean paste would have killed the ‘relationship’ before it had begun.

“I’ll have you over sometime, too, Brian,” the professor invited, smirking slightly as he looked at the adman. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on my tofurkey.”

Shit, Brian cursed to himself. The man must’ve overhead his opinion of tofu as well as Ted’s.

His supposition was confirmed when Ben lectured, “If you’re watching your carbohydrate intake, it’s an extremely good choice. You’ll lose excess weight in no time.”

Brian sat up straighter and sucked in his gut. He knew it! He must’ve put on a least half a pound, just looking at all that fattening Thanksgiving food at Deb’s house. Even so, however, tofu would be a last-ditch resort…

“With that inducement, I’m sure Brian would be delighted to join us for dinner one night,” Ted opined, his eyes twinkling as he looked at the adman. “Right, Bri?”

Fucking Ted, Brian mused, narrowing his eyes at his friend. As dire ways to off the accountant flitted through his mind, the young waiter glanced at the adman and brightly inquired, “Does that mean you’d also like to have the Thai curry tofu, sir?”

Brian almost blurted, ‘Fuck, no!’ but stopped himself just in time. He stuttered in his hurry to decline the fake meat. “Uh, no, thanks. I’ll have, uh, the chimichurri-marinated sirloin with green beans.”

“And to drink?” the young man disinterestedly inquired.

The advertising exec really wanted the shot of Beam he’d previously mentioned, but - despite planning Ted’s demise moments before - he decided on second thought, it would be mean-spirited, what with Ted being unable to drink and then drive. “I’m good with water,” he announced, gesturing toward the pitcher on the table in which slices of lemon floated.

“I’d like the pan-roasted swordfish in lemon-garlic sauce,” Ted requested politely. “I’ll also stick with water.” The waiter didn’t so much as glance at him, eyeing Ben seductively while jotting down Ted’s order.

“So,” the adman casually inquired after the young waiter had left their table, “he’s one of your students?”

Ben nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “A good kid, if a little distracted during class.”

“Could have something to do with the torch he’s carrying,” Brian mumbled under his breath. “He a good student?” he asked a little louder, determined to prove to Ted that his earlier assertion had been correct.

The professor, not having noticed the looks the other two men were exchanging, considered the question. “Well,” he began hesitantly, pausing for a bit before finishing carefully, “he’s not exactly one of my best.”

“Colour me surprised,” Brian snarked, shooting Ted a brief look.

As Ben glanced at the adman in puzzlement, Ted pushed for more information. “But he _is_ passing the class?”

“Barely, I bet,” Brian interjected.

Ben looked even more confused, glancing at one man, then the other. “Why all this interest in how one of my students is faring?” he asked.

Geesh, Brian thought to himself, could the professor be any more clueless? The adman _always_ knew when someone was cruising him… and it was _always_ because Brian was so smokin’ hot, not because someone wanted to get ahead. His mouth open, about to hand the professor a clue - Christ, he felt like he was playing that bloody board game - he abruptly remembered the Kip Thomas debacle. Hurriedly closing his mouth, Brian decided to let Theodore handle this one.

“Well,” an abashed Ted disclosed, “we’ve been debating the reason the kid was hitting on you. Brian’s sure it’s because he wants to raise his grade, but I think it’s simply because he wants you.”

“Hitting on me?” Ben parroted disingenuously.

Brian’s eyes narrowed. Going by the twinkle in his eyes, the professor bloody well knew their waiter was all too sweet on him. Turning to look at his friend and seeing the carefully guarded jealousy in his brown eyes, he snorted. Well played, he thought. Well played, professor.

“Even if he was hitting on me,” Ben shrugged indifferently, “it doesn’t matter in the least, since it won’t influence his grade. More importantly, I’m not interested in him, Theodore; it’s _you_ I have my eye on.”

And that, thought Brian, was even more masterfully played. He almost wished he could say something like that with a straight face - it would probably do wonders for his relationship with J- … people.

“Right,” Brian intervened quickly, “why don’t we all stop gazing into each other’s eyes soulfully and start behaving like normal, healthy fags?”

Ben chuckled. “Just how do ‘normal, healthy fags’ behave in your opinion?”

“Not like lesbians,” the adman instantly replied.

“That’s it?” the professor asked.

“That pretty much covers it,” Brian insisted. “It eliminates all the mushy, emotional, lovey-dovey garbage and leaves space for the hot and heavy sex, no strings attached.”

Ted huffed a small laugh, rising from the table. “Well, I’ve heard that lecture a hundred times already, and I think I can repeat it word for word. Why don’t I leave you two to it and use the opportunity to go and wash my hands?”

“That’s a good example of how not to be a lesbian,” Brian mock seriously stated. “A lesbian would need someone to accompany her to the restroom.”

Shaking his head, Ted glanced at Ben. “Can you believe the bloke actually has friends? Some of them even female.”

Once Ted was out of earshot, Brian sized the other man up. “So,” he drawled slowly with a raised eyebrow.  

“So?” Ben asked, several long seconds later.

“So, you really think Ted is hot?” he asked without preamble.

Ben frowned slightly in surprise, sitting up a little straighter. “You don’t?”

Brian shrugged. “I’m not the one who’s dating him.”

“You don’t have to date a guy to think he’s hot,” Ben countered. “I thought we’d already established that.”

“What I meant, _professor_ ,” Brian snarked, stressing the last word with a curl to his lip, “was that my opinion is not pertinent. You supposedly like him, though, so you tell me what you think of him.”

“There’s nothing _supposed_ about it,” Ben declared. “From the moment I bumped into Theodore for the first time, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.”

“Really?” the younger man asked skeptically. “What caught your eye - his ill-fitting suit or his effortless charm? I mean, let’s be honest, Theodore is a good man, but he’s kind of boring. And awkward.”

“You really don’t see it?” the professor asked, cocking his head at Brian in baffled curiosity.

Brian pushed a little harder, “Look, I know you’re being nice - Ted can be kind of cute sometimes, and hurting him might feel like kicking a puppy - but don’t you think you should just let him down now and be over with it? Why drag it out? He’s not gonna get any funnier, or handsomer, the longer you spend with him.”

Ben’s face reddened. “You really are an arsehole! What kind of friend are you?” he accused. “Just so you know, I’m telling everything you’ve just said to Ted, so he knows what sort of jerkface… why are you smiling?”

The younger man smirked. “You’ve just shown me that you really are interested in Theodore.”

“You were testing me,” Ben spluttered in realisation.

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t really think all those things about Ted.”

“No,” agreed Brian, then paused. “Well, he _is_ a little awkward.”

“Aren’t we all sometimes?” Ben shrugged in acceptance.

“Not me,” the younger man denied. “It goes against my genetic makeup.”

The professor shook his head but declined to dispute the matter. “So,” he uttered drily, “was this your own version of the shovel talk, or is that still coming?”

Brian’s eyes glittered. “You mean the one where I promise to tar and feather you and run you out of this damn city if you ever hurt my friend? The one where I assure my influence will make it impossible for you to work as anything more than a McDonald’s burger flipper… or a sanitation engineer at the zoo?”

“That’s the talk,” Ben agreed, chuckling ruefully.

“Consider it delivered,” the adman magnanimously declared, giving the professor a slight nod of approval as Ted returned to the table.

The accountant took one look at his boyfriend and shot Brian a suspicious glance. “What happened?” he asked, turning back to Ben. “You look weird.”

“Nothing,” the professor immediately dismissed his worry. “Brian here was just being a good friend.”

Theodore snorted. “That would be a first,” he mumbled, though he gave his friend a small smile to show he wasn’t being serious.

The young waiter arrived with their meals as Ted sat back down. After placing Ben’s tofu dish in front of the professor, he somehow managed to set Brian and Ted’s plates in front of the them without ever glancing away from Ben.

Brian glared in distaste at the professor’s plate. “Are you really sure you want him, Theodore?” he asked his friend. “I mean, he’s clearly nuts. You’d have to be to subject yourself to that soy stuff.”

Their server instantly stepped in to defend Ben. “That ‘soy stuff’ is delicious,” he protested, batting his eyes at the professor.

“Uh-huh,” the adman grunted sceptically. “So, teacher’s pet, just what is your favourite tofu dish, and how do you prepare it?”

“Um, a tofu… tofu burger?” the kid offered with a hesitant look at Bruckner, as if to check he had answered correctly. Then, glancing at the plate he had just carried, he changed his mind, “No, a curry. Tofu curry.”

Ben looked at the young man in disappointment. “Have you ever actually eaten tofu?”

“Of course I have!” the waiter claimed in indignation. “I’m just nervous to be put on the spot,” he tried.

“Nervous,” Brian snorted. “Right.”

“That’s not particularly believable, Simon,” Ben chided mildly. “You were extolling the merits of tofu less than half an hour ago.”

The kid turned his big pleading eyes at his teacher. “I can’t help it if I’m nervous, professor,” he insisted. “You’d be too if you were being interrogated in front of a man you- ehm, you know, admire.”

Ted grunted. “Jesus, give the lad a shovel,” he mumbled quietly to Brian. “That’s a big hole he’s digging for himself.”

Right then, the hostess who’d greeted Ted and Brian when they arrived at the Chef’s Table bustled over and hissed, “Simon!” When the server didn’t respond, she repeated his name more loudly. “Simon! Other customers are waiting for their food. Quit trying to flirt your way to a higher score in Gay Studies. Professor Bruckner will never fall for your malarkey.”

As the young man slunk away from their table, the hostess apologised. “Even though Simon has been getting on my last nerve, using his wiles to ‘earn’ better grades, that was unprofessional of me. I’d appreciate it if you’d forget it ever happened.”

Brian smirked at her. “Are you kidding? That was the most entertained I have been the whole day. Can you do an encore?”

Although he managed a serious facade, Ben’s lips twitched as he remarked, “While you were undoubtedly provoked, Kristine, it would be best not to make a habit of such set-downs.”

The hostess nodded, her cheeks pink.

Just loud enough for Kristine and the other men at the table to hear, the professor continued, his mouth curving into a slight smile, “Even if your delivery was absolutely perfect.”

That thinly disguised approbation caused the young woman to grin impishly and murmur, “Thanks, professor,” before returning to her workstation.

The men tucked in, humming in appreciation of the delicious food. “Would you like to try a bite, Ted?” Ben offered, holding out a spoonful of curry.

“Erm, that’s okay,” the accountant demurred. “I don’t think the curry would go right with my fish.”

Just as Brian was mentally congratulating Ted on cleverly avoiding the dreaded soybean stuff, the professor agreed, a sly glint in his eyes, “Maybe not. That excuse won’t work, though, when you come to dinner at my place.”

“It was worth a try,” Ted husked out on a laugh. “I’m really not a tofu person, Ben.”

“You will be,” the professor stated confidently. “You, too Brian,” Ben added, destroying the adman’s fervent wish that the man would forget all about him in relation to anything tofu.

When Ted shot him a look that clearly expressed he wasn’t going to let Brian off the hook - if Ted had to choke down soya, so did Brian - the stud grunted noncommittally. Where the fuck was it written in the ‘friend manual’ that he had to sacrifice himself on the tofu altar? he wondered.

The adman was distracted from dreaming up more ways to murder said _friend_ , when Ted suddenly broached the real estate topic. “We’re looking for a location for Brian’s new agency,” he related, “but there seems to be a dearth of adequate properties. We were wondering if you perhaps didn’t know of anything?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Ben stated regretfully. “I can check with a colleague over in Business Administration, though. Sanjeet might know of something, since he’s teaching a seminar on the local real estate market.”

“Ta,” Brian thanked the professor. “We’ll go permanently doolally if the business is housed in my loft for very long.”

“Yeah,” Ted chimed in, straightening up in his chair, a distinct popping sound resulting. “I was hunched over the coffee table for too long today.”

“You’re getting old, Theodore,” the adman joked, “making creaking noises like that.”

“You try sitting at the coffee table tomorrow, and I’ll take your desk,” Ted retorted, reaching around to rub his lower back. “We’ll see whose joints pop then.”

“You’ll soon be seated at a proper table,” Brian placated his employee. “Although you should show more respect for my Mies van der Rohe coffee table.”

“It could be Louis Quatorze, and it’d still be a torture device masquerading as a desk,” Ted protested. Now massaging the back of his neck, he allowed, “Albeit, a dining table does not a desk make, it’ll be a distinct improvement over that coffee table.”

Had he instructed Cynthia to make sure his new dining table was sturdy as well as aesthetically pleasing? Brian suddenly fretted. Then he relaxed as he recalled referring to it as a fucking table cum dining table. It should be all right then, he reassured himself.

“So, do you also meet your clients at your loft?” asked Ben curiously.

Brian straightened his spine in horror. “Of course not! That would sent the completely wrong message. Until we have actual premises, any client meetings will be in hotel conference rooms or at their offices.”

“When do you plan to officially open your agency?” the academician probed.

“Preferably yesterday,” Brian huffed out a laugh. “But considering we don’t have a building yet or have any idea how much work it will take to make it habitable and functional, who knows?”

“Yeah,” Ted wryly observed, “I can just imagine the look on the clerk’s face at City Planning, if I enquired about a building permit and then just stood there like a moron, questioning, ‘What do you mean, what building? I need a building to obtain a permit?’”

All three men burst out laughing as they pictured that scenario. “Talk about putting the cart before the horse,” Ben snorted.

“Or the sex before the condom.” The brunet stud shuddered at the notion of engaging in unsafe sex.

At first, Brian assumed Ted and Ben had quietened because they were equally horrified by the mention of unprotected sex, but the silence lingered a little too long for that to be the case.

Finally, the professor, his face pale, bluntly confessed, “I’m HIV positive.”

“Shit,” the adman breathed out, shocked. He would never have made such a tactless remark if he had guessed, but Ben looked in the pink of health. His first instinct was to shake Ted’s shoulders and tell him to run, but he forced himself to swallow down any panic. Grasping for something reasonable to say, he asked, “The cocktail you’re taking - it’s under control?”

“Now it is,” the professor acknowledged in a strained voice, tightly clasping the hand Ted had extended across the table. “I went through a rough patch, both mentally and physically, after I was diagnosed, but my condition has been stable for over a year now.”

Reaching out and quickly giving Ted’s arm a squeeze, Brian stated quietly, “I’m sure you’ve talked through the ramifications and will behave appropriately, so I won’t belabor the point.” Pausing for a moment, he tilted his head to the side, musing, “You know, Theodore, you’re probably the only one of my friends who could cope with an HIV-positive partner.”

Ted smiled slightly, obviously pleased by his friend’s observation. He mulled over what Brian had said and then, a teasing lilt to his voice, he asked, “Even the Boy Wonder?”

“Even Justin,” Brian confirmed. “The kid would freak out and ruin any chance he had.”

“I’m lucky,” the professor murmured, smiling softly at his boyfriend. “But now, enough of this ‘lesbianic stuff’ before Brian’s ears start bleeding,” he declared. His turquoise-tinted eyes sparkling wickedly, Ben planted his elbows on the table and recommended, “Let’s discuss something important… like the upcoming ‘Long Schlong’ competition at Babylon.”

 

The main topics of conversation at the Liberty Diner that afternoon were similar to those being discussed by Ben, Ted, and Brian at the Chef’s Table: Babylon’s forthcoming ‘Long Schlong’ contest - bets furiously being placed even before the entrants were known - and speculation about Brian’s new advertising agency.

When Justin had arrived for his afternoon shift, Debbie told him that she’d been spreading the word that Liberty Avenue’s reigning stud was looking for a place to house his new agency. “This diner has been abuzz since seven o’clock this morning,” she’d cackled. “Let’s keep spreading the word, Sunshine. Brian’ll have so many properties to look at, they’ll be coming out his wazoo!”

As he cleared the table nearest the entrance, Justin noticed two men studying a flyer promoting the ‘Long Schlong’ contest. One of them, a whipcord thin man, deliberated, “I wonder what he’ll call it.”

“Wait… when did Burt name his dick?” his shorter, heftier companion asked.

“Huh?” The thin guy turned to his friend. “Oh, I’m not talking about the likelihood of your roomie’s cock winning the competition - which is nil, by the way. I meant Kinney’s new agency. He’s an adman, so he’ll have egg on his face if he doesn’t come up with something both clever and classy.”

Justin smiled smugly, unable to imagine Brian finding a better name than the one he’d proposed a few days ago.

“Whatever Kinney calls it,” the shorter man commented, “I hope he sets up shop here in the hood.”

“Why?” his tall friend asked, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “What difference would that make?”

After Shorty proclaimed, “Duh, it’ll bring more business to the gayborhood.” Justin stopped earwigging the conversation, suddenly concerned as to what effect it would have on him if Brian worked even closer to the diner than he had while at Ryder. He might drop by more often, which wouldn’t be good for the teen’s peace of mind. Sure, they were sort of talking now - Justin even felt the occasional protective vibe - but at other times, his ex either gave him the cold shoulder or acted hostile. They were hardly friends; heck, Justin had dismissed out of hand the idea of calling Brian when he was stranded at St James yesterday afternoon, preferring to walk home if it had come to that.

Justin hauled the tubful of dirty dishes to the kitchen and returned to the main part of the diner to greet a new inrush of customers, one of whom he was surprised to note was none other than Dr Dave. The teen barely knew the man, but he’d gotten the feeling that the chiropractor wasn’t all that keen on the eatery, that he’d maybe prefer a more upscale place to eat.

“Hello, Justin,” David acknowledged him affably, but he didn’t actually look at the teen, instead gazing toward the back of the diner.

Figuring he must be looking for his boyfriend, Justin told the doc, “Michael’s not here-”

Dave interrupted him rather brusquely, “I know that. It’s Debbie I want. “Wait, there she-” He stopped speaking, flushing as he realised he’d mistaken Kiki for Deb.

“Want to take me for a test drive, doc?” the tranny purred suggestively as she approached. “I can outperform your _current_ model, I guarantee.”

Justin coughed in an effort to disguise the laugh that had bubbled up at the outraged expression on David’s face. Didn’t the man get that Kiki was just having a bit of fun? Huh, he mused, Horvath - the totally _straight_ detective - was more at ease flirting with Kiki than the uptight doctor.

Since Kiki was starting to look rather pissed off at the doctor’s obvious repugnance, the blond diplomatically intervened, “Um, maybe I can help?”

“Maybe,” David replied slowly, clearly doubtful. “When I stopped in this morning for some lemon bars - my receptionist has quite the sweet tooth - she told me Brian is looking for real estate for his new advertising agency. She asked me to keep an eye out for suitable properties, and to let her know if I discovered something.”

Geesh, Justin thought, the man was really kinda pompous. The doc made it sound like he was the only one Debbie had shared that information with.

Evidently Kiki was of the same opinion. She rolled her eyes and tossed her head, the curls in her bouffant hairdo bouncing as she announced, “Yeah, you and every other fag in this burg. Every single one of them wants to be the one who finds the ideal location for Brian.” She inquired of Justin, “You’ve got this, right, Sunshine?” and, at his nod, she sashayed over to serve the recent arrivals.

The blond lad glanced questioningly at David when he heard him mumble something that sounded like ‘trash’. Was he referring to Kiki? Justin wondered, starting to get angry on the tranny’s behalf. When the older man didn’t utter anything else disparaging, however, the teen calmed down, thinking he must’ve misheard.

“You know,” David proposed, “you could give me Debbie’s phone number, and I’ll call her directly. I need to get back to the office, since I only have a short break between patients.”

Arrogant prick, Justin thought. He refused to show his annoyance, however. “Hmm,” he countered, “why don’t you just tell me where the property is? We’ll make sure to pass on the information to Brian.” When David opened his mouth, presumably to protest, he offered, “We’ll make sure you’re given the credit if Brian likes the place.”

The chiropractor’s eyes lit up at that, causing Justin to give a mental eye-roll. So that’s what the doctor had been after with all that hemming and hawing.

“Well,” the doctor hedged, “the building is probably in rather disgusting condition....”

Jesus, doc, the lad thought, just spit it out, would’ya?

As if in answer to his unspoken plea, the man finally revealed in a hushed voice, “It’s the old bathhouse, the one over by the waterfront that’s been closed for nearly a year.”

Immediately seeing the possibilities, Justin smiled widely at the doc, David grinning in return. He could understand better now, why the older man had wanted to impart this news himself; the bathhouse idea was brilliant.

“Do you know if it’s listed with a realtor?” he asked. Brian would want to know who to contact.

“I don’t think so,” the chiropractor responded. “There’s no sign posted out front, and it’s not in a desirable location… for most people.”

“Ehm,” Justin coughed, “not many will have regarded it as a ‘home away from home’.”

“Their loss,” the doc deadpanned. Glancing at his watch, he then swore, “Fuck. I’d better get back to the office. My next client gets really stroppy if he’s kept waiting.”

“I’m going to call Brian right away,” Justin promised. “He’s gonna owe you one for this.”

“No,” Dr Dave waved it off, “it’s me who owes him a favour.” With that, he rushed out the door to attend to his patient.

Justin looked after him in bemusement, curious as to why the doc owed Brian. He shrugged - he might never know the answer to that mystery - and looked around to ensure there were no customers in need of immediate assistance, before stepping behind the counter, lifting the receiver of the wall phone next to the cash register, and dialling Brian’s cell. When the phone rolled over to voicemail after just one ring, he muttered, “Fuck,” in frustration. Of all the times for the adman to have set his phone to silent.

“Brian,” he spoke quietly into the mouthpiece so no one could overhear, “Dr Dave has discovered the perfect location for your new agency - the waterfront bathhouse that was closed down months ago. You should drive by and check it out. Oh, yeah,” he finished lamely, “this is Justin. Bye.”

Way to sound like a total numpty, Justin chastised himself after hanging up. Say who you are at the end of the message, when the man will have already figured it out. The blond jiggled in place, wanting to talk to Brian about the bathhouse _right now_ , too excited to think about anything else. Fuck. He wished he and his ex lover were on better terms; then he’d know where to track the adman down.

“What’s going on?” Kiki’s voice penetrated his excited daze. “You’re hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean.”

“Uh, I think Dr Dave’s actually found the perfect place for Brian’s agency,” Justin disclosed.

Her jaw dropping in disbelief, the tranny exclaimed, “That pompous asshole? Dammit!” She stamped her foot in frustration.

The teenager tsk-tsked. “His social skills definitely need polishing, but this place really is ideal.”

“Okay, okay. If he’s done Kinney a good turn, I’ll forgive his behavior… this once.” Kiki allowed. “Well?” she prodded a few beats later. “Where is it?”

“Kiks,” Justin pled, “uh, it’s probably better if I don’t say.”

The tranny narrowed her eyes at the blond, before she surprised him by laughing uproariously. “You’re worried this gossip queen can’t keep mum?” she gasped.

Squirming in embarrassment, Justin didn’t dare say a word. Kiki didn’t seem upset, but he didn’t want to inadvertently set her off.

“Kiddo,” she wiped away a tear from laughing so hard, another chuckle escaping, “you’re absolutely right.”

The lad hesitantly smiled at her. “Ehm,” he bounced in place, “do you think you could cover the diner for about thirty minutes? There’s no placard posted with a realtor’s number, and I want to take a closer look to see if I can get some contact info for Brian.”

“Ah, it’s in the neighborhood then.” The woman nodded approvingly. “Go to it, Sunshine. We’ve hit the early evening lull, anyhow, so it’s pretty quiet.”

With a quick, “Ta!” and a bright smile, Justin grabbed his jacket and mittens from the break room and dashed out the door, the apron he hadn’t bothered to remove flapping around his legs. “Brr!” he complained to himself as the cold air sliced through the thin material of his coat, prompting him to settle into a steady jog. He reached the bathhouse about ten minutes later, trotting down the walkway to the door.

That’s when the teenager realised that although there was some kind of paper taped to the inside of the door, he couldn’t read it. The streetlamp on the corner didn’t cast enough light, and it wasn’t like he had a cell phone that he could use as an improvised flashlight. Resigned to jogging back to the diner, locating a flashlight, and then returning, Justin started to turn away, right as a car drove down the street perpendicular to the entrance, its headlights shining on the door.

Delighted by this stroke of luck, Justin quickly read the number printed beneath, ‘Direct inquiries to,’ jotting it down on the notepad he’d pulled from his apron pocket. He then hoofed it back to the diner, where he called and left Brian another message. It was starting to get busy again, the bell jingling as more people streamed into the diner, so the lad tamped down his excitement about the bathhouse - there was nothing more he could do anyway - and resumed serving the customers.

 

“No more ‘buggy rice’?” Justin joked a couple hours later. “I’m disappointed, Fahad.”

The chef chuckled. He’d been vastly entertained by Michael’s reaction to his _baghali polo_. “I’m saving that for the bloke who likes crawly critters so much.”

“You have competition, you know,” the teen confided with an earnest expression on his face. “The Finn conjured up ‘beetle spinach’.”

Fahad had just opened his mouth to reply, when Justin heard Kiki announce loudly from somewhere behind him, “Oh, Princess, you look like you’re on the wrong side of the town!” Turning around slowly from the kitchen window, hands full of steaming plates, he searched for the source of his colleague’s amusement. His eyes slid over a couple chattering trannies, a group of rowdy teenagers that were probably on Liberty to experiment, and a pair of butch lesbians with three screaming kids, before he finally found it. There was a small blonde in a designer coat with a petrified expression on her face standing uncertainly in front of the bar.

Justin smirked. This was clearly her first time anywhere near Liberty, he deduced, as she was staring at Kiki in stunned horror. Setting down the food on the appropriate table, Justin threw the girl another look. Wait, he narrowed his eyes at her; the girl was actually somewhat familiar now he thought about it. If he could only remember-

Holy mackerel on the stick! If that wasn’t Hobbs’ little cheerleader girlfriend standing in the middle of the Liberty Diner, then Justin would go and fuck a vagina.

“Sydney?” he asked in surprise. What the fuck? He hadn’t even recognised the girl at first in the diner setting, not ever having expected to see her anywhere outside of school. What the hell was she doing here?

The girl turned to him. “Taylor!” she let out in obvious relief. “I was starting to think you were just having me on and that you weren’t actually here,” she complained, walking over to him. “Let’s start then, shall we?”

Justin gaped. For a wild second, he thought she had somehow read his mind and was offering her own vagina to him. He shuddered internally - now that was a thought he’d never wanted to have.

Clearly tired of him uselessly standing there with a blank expression, the cheerleader snapped her fingers in front of the blond’s face. “Hey! Pay attention! Are we doing this or not?”

Completely flabbergasted, the teen lad looked around to make sure he hadn’t somehow travelled to some alternate reality and noticed Kiki giving him a strange look. “Uh, what?”

“The study session?” she reminded him. “Come on, Taylor, get with the program!”

The proverbial light bulb flickering to life above his head, Justin shook himself out of his stupor. “Right,” he said. “Right, there’s a free table by the window over there,” he told her, motioning for her to go sit down. “I’ll join you when my shift finishes in ten minutes.”

The girl went and did as she was told, giving the other patrons weird looks on her way. Justin shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he was seriously impressed the girl hadn’t run out screaming. More amused than irritated by her bossiness, he decided her gumption had earned her some slack and didn't call her on her attitude. Maybe he wouldn’t even tease her about showing up a full day _after_ the one his ‘invitation’ had been meant for.

The promised ten minutes later, at exactly eight o’clock, Justin took off his pinny, washed his hands, grabbed a tuna sandwich to eat, and went over to a still waiting Sydney.

Noticing him coming, she huffed, “Finally, Taylor. I’m not getting any younger over here.” Then she continued griping, “Did you know I had to drive myself over here? I tried to make Chris do it, but he refused to go anywhere near ‘that part of town’. Can you believe it?”

Figuring that saying, ‘Yeah, I can, because he’s a homophobic prick.’ wouldn’t really go over well with the grumpy cheerleader, Justin just hummed in acknowledgment.

Clearly feeling encouraged by that, Sydney continued, “So here I am, alone, in the middle of a strange neighbourhood with people of dubious gender looking at me like I’m a leper.”

Justin couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at her. Five points for eloquence, ten points for assholeness, he thought. “It might help not calling their gender dubious,” he suggested carefully, weirdly worried he’d run her off.

She shrugged at him. “Whatever, but applying makeup so you end up looking like a circus clown doesn’t make you a woman.”

A red-headed queen in a neighboring booth, the light shining off her sparkly gold eyelids, took offense. “Maybe you should remember that pretty is as pretty does,” she advised.

A stare-off ensued, making Justin think of gunslingers in the old west. He snorted, imagining them drawing mascara wands instead of pistols. Both women immediately transferred their glares to the hapless lad, so he hunkered down, busying himself with pulling his textbooks out of his backpack.

After a good minute more of the uncomfortable staring match, Sydney bit her lip and then offered a little snootily, “You should try blue eyeshadow instead of that gaudy gold.”

Another beat of silence and then the queen, “You think?”

“It would go with your hair,” Sydney shrugged.

Justin could see the redhead’s eyes light up at that. “Really? And what about green?” she asked, clearly interested.

This spurred the blonde student into a long-winded lecture on how the colour of your eyeshadow could bring out some of your features or how it could seemingly alter the colour, shape, or size of your eyes. The queen was lapping it all up eagerly. This might be the start of a beautiful friendship, Justin thought a little hysterically.

When the girls moved on to contouring and how to use a highlighter, the teenage boy felt he had to step in, though. “Uh, Sydney?” he called out. “Calculus?”

She started, her blonde hair whipping around as she looked at him. “Oh, right, sorry,” she mumbled. “I guess we should get on that. I need to get at least a C on the next test if I don’t want to fail - Dixon is really riding me hard this year.”

Justin gaped at her. “Uh, he is?”

“Yeah, can you believe he told my parents that he could no longer justify giving me a C because, apparently, I’m technically failing? I mean, Chris hardly ever gets a single point off on any of the tests, and his average is C+ and I’m supposed to make do with a D? My father was just about ready to kill me when he came home.”

“Huh,” Justin grunted, amazed that Chris brown-nosing Dixon wasn’t having a beneficial effect on Syd’s grade.

“You thought Chris had sweet-talked Dickhead into raising my score, didn’t you?” she asked, a defeated note to her voice.

“Mmm,” the lad made a non-committal noise. That was _exactly_ what he’d thought.

“Yeah, you and everyone else,” the girl sighed. “That was even true in maths class last year. But at the beginning of this year, when I realised I didn’t understand the material, I wised up. It’s just… no matter how hard I try, I haven’t been able to catch up.”

Justin was shocked to find himself actually feeling sorry for the girl.

“When I complained to Chris,” she continued, “he told me to forget about it because a housewife doesn’t need calculus. As if I want to be a _housewife_ ,” she spit out.

“What a fu-” the young man hastily cut himself off. Disparaging Hobbs wouldn’t help matters. He was starting to think, though, that Syd deserved far better than that cretin.

“Fucktard? Fuckwit?” the pompom girl bitterly supplied. “Chris is all of those.”

His brow furrowing, Justin bluntly inquired, “Then why are you dating him?”

“Because his parents are friends of my parents? Because the head cheerleader is supposed to date the best jock?” She blushed as she added, “Because he’s _hot_ and, erm, because his family’s got heaps of money. He’s always giving me things.”

Sydney flicked the bauble in one ear with a pink-painted fingernail, drawing Justin’s attention to it.

Unsure what to say, the lad raised his eyebrows in question.

“No, it’s not worth it,” she declared. “I’ll get rid of him soon enough. But for now I need to concentrate on improving my grades, especially in physics and calculus. I _refuse_ to fail. So, yeah, that’s where you come in, Taylor,” she announced, smiling saucily at Justin.

The blond lad found himself smiling back, the sassy cheerleader beginning to grow on him. “Why don’t you try to solve these sample problems?” he suggested, sliding over a sheet with the same ones he’d used to help Daphne. “Then we’ll know where to start.”

“Shit,” the girl moaned forty-five minutes later, “I’ve barely got through five of these. And I don’t know where I’m going with that last one.”

“Maybe this will help,” a voice offered, as a steaming plateful of fries appeared in front of them and two glasses of Coke were set down.

Justin looked up at Harry - who’d come on shift when the blond finished for the night - to thank him, only to decide he might as well be invisible. The normally cheeky waiter was simply standing there, mouth agape, looking directly at Sydney. Syd was equally dumbstruck.

He’d never seen such an instant attraction, the blond lad thought. Curious if either of them would notice, he reached out for a fry and munched on it.

The crunching noise seemed to wake them up. Harry pushed the plate closer to the blonde girl, still taking no notice of Justin. “Grease helps get those synapses firing,” he claimed.

Bullshit. Justin could almost hear Brian pontificating, ‘And clog your arteries, make you fat, give you zits… in other words, make you utterly unfuckable.’ all whilst swiping fries off the blond’s plate. He giggled at the image, which caused his Asian friend to start. “Oh, Justin, there you are.”

“Quid mirum,” Justin muttered, shaking his head fondly.

“You want to give me a million quid?” the cheeky waiter jested.

Finally tearing her eyes away from Harry, Sydney asserted, “Justin’s always spouting something or other in Latin.” Shooting an oddly proud look at the blond, she boasted, “He’s at the top of the senior class, you know.”

Perplexed, Justin stared at his fellow senior. How could she be so certain? he wondered. Class standings wouldn’t be posted until all grades had been tallied at the end of the semester.

“Sunshine’s always got his nose buried in a textbook or a sketchpad,” Harry confirmed.

“Oh, fuck,” Justin muttered.

Sure enough, barely a second later, the pom-pom girl screeched, “Sunshine?”

“Look at the boy,” the Vietnamese bloke urged, ruffling Justin’s hair. “He’s all blond up top, and he’s got a killer smile.”

His killer scowl had no effect on the two laughing hyenas, unfortunately. In response to his beseeching gaze, Syd assured him, “No worries, Taylor. I won’t call you Sunshine at school - as long as we get along, that is. Outside of school, though, is another matter entirely.”

It could be worse, Justin decided. He quite liked the nickname Debbie had bestowed on him, although he usually heard it only from friends. Surprisingly, it seemed Sydney might fit into that group.

“Yo! Harry!” Fahad called from the pass-through, the impatience in his voice suggesting he’d been trying to get the server’s attention for a while. “This food’s getting cold.”

Harry jumped as if he’d been jabbed with a hatpin. “Catch you later,” he promised, before scurrying over to grab the plates from the ledge.

“That’s his name?” Syd questioned. “Harry?”

“Yeah,” Justin confirmed. He’d have to tease Harry about failing to introduce himself or obtain Syd’s name. The dude was definitely off his game.

“Uh, he’s not gay?” the cheerleader asked uncertainly.

Since Harry was openly bisexual, the blond didn’t hesitate to reveal, “He’s bi.”

Justin was impressed and pleased when Sydney wasn’t fazed by that titbit. “Awesome,” she murmured, her eyes following the waiter as he bustled around the diner. “Does he have a boyfriend or girlfriend?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Justin recommended, “although you’ll probably want to tell him your name first.”

“Bollocks!” Sydney spluttered. “I made a right hash of that, didn’t I?”

“No more than Harry,” the blond lad chuckled. He was so going to rib his friend about this. “Why don’t we eat some of these fries and review the problems you’ve completed? Then you can give a few more of them a go.”

After fifty-five minutes of intense study, Sydney suddenly shouted, punching her fists in the air, “Oh, my god! I get it, Justin! I can do that!”

Justin beamed at the girl, who was bouncing in her seat. He’d been about to give up, unable to think of another way to explain, when suddenly it clicked for the cheerleader.

Rather than try to flag down Harry - the diner was hopping now, with more customers pouring in - Justin jumped up, plated some lemon bars, grabbed the carafe of hot water, a bowl with teabags, cups, saucers, and spoons, and carried everything over to the table. “Here,” he offered, setting a plate in front of Syd, “the diner’s lemon bars are the best in the Pitts. You deserve a reward for figuring out that thorny problem.”

“I slayed that bitch!” Sydney bragged.

“You did,” Justin confirmed.

As they devoured the lemon bars - Justin trotting over to the counter for more - Sydney rued, “I should have never listened to Chris in the first place when he said I wouldn’t have to do anything and I’d still get a C.”

Justin realised he didn’t want the blonde to beat herself up any more. “Hobbs will eventually fall flat on his face,” he predicted. “What is it he plans on studying? Engineering?”

“Civil engineering,” Sydney specified. “He’s always boasting that since his older brothers are complete numbnuts, he’ll be the one in charge of his dad’s construction company after he graduates.”

“Hmm,” Justin speculated, grinning evilly, “he may get into university on an athletic scholarship, but there’s no way he’ll survive the mathematics that’s part of the curriculum. In fact, he’ll probably have to take remedial courses.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer person,” the girl snickered. Flicking her blond curls, she announced, “I’ll have kicked him to the curb by then, Chris having served his purpose.”

If she were talking about anyone but Hobbs, Justin reflected, he’d feel sorry for the guy. Her callous attitude reminded him, however, that he should tread carefully with the cheerleader.

The two teens were quiet for a few minutes as they sipped their tea and polished off the lemony treats. “You know, Taylor,” Syd mused, “you’re not a bad guy, even a little bit cool for a fa-”

The blond narrowed his eyes at the pom-pom girl, reminded again that she wasn’t to be trusted.

Heeding the frown on his face, Sydney stumbled to correct herself. “For a freak, uh, I mean, geek. I even told Chris that.”

“You told Chris that?” Justin uttered in shock. “Why?”

“I didn’t use those exact words,” the blonde girl admitted, but he got the message loud and clear when I told him the cool little fa-” the cheerleader stopped speaking abruptly. “Anyway,” she resumed, shrugging off her blunder, “Chris got the message when I told him I was letting _you_ tutor me, and that by the end of senior year, I’d have a better grade than him.”

“Thanks, for _letting_ me tutor you, Sydney,” the young man gritted out.

“Oh, come on,” the cheerleader remonstrated, “don’t get all pissy. You want to help me.”

“What makes you think that?” Justin growled. What had happened to the girl he was beginning to like? the teen puzzled. Right now, Sydney was behaving like the bitch he’d always taken her for.

A smug smile on her face, Sydney conjectured, “You’re hoping some of my popularity will rub off on you, that you’ll become less of a social pariah at St James, that maybe I’ll ask Chris to get off your case. Why else would you tutor me after I basically trapped you into it, and then had the audacity to show up after the day you agreed to help me?”

Well, Justin thought, that would teach him not to underestimate the cheerleader. She was bloody clever, even if her reasoning was warped.

Taking his silence for assent, Sydney expounded, “There’s no way I can hang out with you at school, Taylor - I’m not gonna endanger my social standing. I can have a word with Chris though, even - her face scrunched into a moue of distaste - give him a blowjob, if necessary.”

Justin wasn’t about to give the girl the satisfaction of knowing how thoroughly she’d duped him. “Don’t sacrifice yourself on my account,” Justin stated flatly, closing his textbook with a thump. “You don’t need to _let_ this _faggot_ help you any more either.”

“Wait!” Syd pleaded as he shoved his book into his bag and stood up.

The blond looked down at her coldy. “Since you’re so fond of _cool faggots_ ,” he sneered, “you might as well know that Chris got off bigtime on the handjob I gave him.”

“Ha- handjob?” Sydney squealed.

“Yeah, your boyfriend’s a closet case.”

“You’re making it up,” the blonde accused.

“Believe that if you want to.” Justin shrugged and stepped away from the booth.

“No… wait… Taylor… Justin, please,” Sydney begged, reaching out and tugging on his hand. “I really thought that’s why you were helping me, to improve your status at school.”

“Yeah, well,” the boy snapped, “I’m not you.”

“I get that now. Promise.” Sydney earnestly claimed. “It’s just I haven’t always been popular - you don’t know what that’s like.”

“Really? I don’t know?” Justin shook his head in disbelief at the flustered girl but - surprised that she wasn’t harping on about the handjob, and curious as to what she’d say next - he sat back down.

“No, you don’t,” the cheerleader insisted. “I swear I didn’t lose my baby weight until I hit puberty. I got so tired of being called _fatty_. At best I was ignored, at worst bullied.”

“Huh,” Justin grunted. That would be pretty traumatic, he supposed.

Sydney reminisced, “I was thirteen when my parents enrolled me at St James, and the boys were finally noticing me. Not you, though. This cute, popular, blond guy, a star soccer player, who sailed through all his classes - he never noticed me or the massive crush I had on him.”

Well, the part about not noticing was certainly true, Justin thought.

“So,” the cheerleader continued, “the day a jeep with ‘faggot’ spray-painted in hot pink on the side came screaming up to St James and you got out, I thought, so that’s why Taylor never looked at me.”

“That’s why you turned into a bitch and started disparaging me all the time?” Justin skeptically inquired. “Because you found out I was gay?”

The blonde girl flushed. “Not exactly. It was more that when I saw how being, uh, gay, made you into an outcast, this intense feeling of schadenfreude swept through me. I was happy that you knew what it was like.”

“Jesus, Sydney, that’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said in a small voice. “I just didn’t know how to stop ragging on you, ya know? I mean, it’s a thing most of us do - pick on the outcasts so that we don’t end up becoming rejects ourselves.”

“Not me,” Justin stated firmly, standing up again. He’d had enough of this bullshit.

“Please,” the cheerleader implored. “Give me a little leeway, okay? I won’t make nasty remarks at school any more - I’ll even say ‘hi’ to you.”

Justin watched as Sydney swiped a finger under her eyes while gazing at him beseechingly. “Okay,” he reluctantly agreed, not sure why he felt sorry for the girl. “That’ll do for now. But you’d better not boast about how you hoodwinked me into helping you. I hear anything like that, and we’re done.”

“It won’t happen,” the cheerleader vowed, shaking her head vehemently.

“Keep working through the problems on the sheet I gave you,” Justin suggested, pulling out a couple of library books and a notepad. “I’m going to work on my paper for American Government, but you can ask me questions if you get stuck.”

An hour and a half later, Syd rested her head on her textbook, mumbling, “That’s all I can take. My head’s so stuffed full of equations, it feels like it’s going to explode.”

“I’m ready to wrap it up too,” Justin agreed, stuffing everything into his backpack.

“Um, could we study together again?” the blonde cheerleader inquired as they gathered up their books. “I need a lot more help before I’ll be up to speed in calculus, never mind physics.”

Justin hesitated, unsure whether he could handle another study session with Sydney.

“Please,” she importuned. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

Somewhat begrudgingly, the boy offered, “Daphne and I are going to meet here next Wednesday night at eight o’clock if you want to join us.”

“Heck, yeah! I’ll _let_ you tutor me anytime,” the blonde sallied, smiling to remove the sting.

Chuckling at her sass, Justin was about to offer to walk her to her car, when he saw Harry headed in their direction. “See you tomorrow, Syd,” he said as he looped his backpack over his shoulder.

With a mischievous grin, Sydney promised, “You betcha, _Sunshine_.”

 

“Ben’s great, right?” Ted asked as he pulled up in front of Brian’s apartment building.

“Hmm?” the younger man absently mumbled, fishing his mobile out of his coat pocket.

“Ben?” Ted prompted.

Brian again didn’t pay attention, exclaiming, “How the fuck can I have have so many messages?” as he held the phone up to his ear and pressed play. “I only had the blasted thing turned off while we were at dinner. Can’t anyone in this burg get along without me for a couple of hours?” He skipped past the  three messages from Mikey, one from Lindsay, and stopped on the first one from Justin.

“Turn around,” he ordered as he listened. “We need to drive by the bathhouse.”

“One of your tricks getting impatient?” the accountant joked as he obliging turned around and drove back down Fuller.

Not deeming Ted’s teasing worth a response, Brian listened to Justin’s second message, phone pressed to his ear. He did so twice, the second time so he could write down the information the blond had provided. When he was done, the adman glanced up and kvetched, “Fuck, Ted, you’ve gone past it. We want the bathhouse by the waterfront.”

“But that place has been closed for months,” the other man objected, even as he turned around again, automatically following his friend’s instructions. “It’s empty.”

“Yeah,” Brain agreed, grinning broadly. “And who do you know that’s in need of an empty building?”

Ted sat in stunned silence for a moment, before querying, “A bathhouse? Shit, Bri, I don’t know if that’s genius or insane.”

“It’s perfect,” Brian proclaimed as they drove up to the abandoned building. “Just the place to give my agency that all-important edge. Damn,” he muttered, stepping out of the car as soon as it had stopped “I wish I could look inside right now.”

Ted eyed the derelict building. “Yeah, I don’t know. It’s probably still too steamy to see anything,” he joked as Brian walked up to the door. He watched the younger brunet shine his phone at the door so he could read the paper that was stapled to it.

Checking that the number Justin had given him was indeed correct, Brian then dialled it.

After eight rings, a grumpy voice finally answered, “Hanson.”

Adopting a disinterested tone, the advertising exec drawled, “This is Brian Kinney. I understand you’re the point of contact for the abandoned building on Mulberry.”

“You’re interested in that white elephant?” the man responded eagerly. “I’ve been trying to offload the property for ages.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Brian snarked. “One of my colleagues thinks it might be worth a look, although I’m not sure why. It’s got to be pretty dilapidated, but I decided to humour him and give you a call,” he finished in a bored tone.

“I’ll cut you a deal you can’t turn down,” Hanson pledged. “When would you like to see the place?”

The ad executive hmmed in pretend consideration. “I suppose I could free up an hour tomorrow morning,” he offered with feigned reluctance. “The sooner it’s over, the better.”

“You’ve got it! Would nine o’clock fit into your schedule?”

Pausing as if he were checking his itinerary, Brian waited a couple seconds before confirming. “Yeah, I can squeeze that in.”

“Great! I’ll be outside the building at nine sharp!” the man enthused. “Uh, I’m Fred. Fred Hanson.”

“Whatever.” Sounding utterly bored by the prospect of meeting Hanson, Brian pressed ‘end call’ without leaving his phone number.

“How’d you stay so calm and collected?” Ted asked admiringly. “You’re drooling, you want this place so badly.”

The young stud actually reached up and swiped at his mouth, just in case his friend wasn’t jesting. “Very funny, Theodore,” he groused when the glove came away dry. “You forget who you’re talking to? I know exactly what to say and do to get what I want.”

Ted just chuckled, shaking his head.

After finally arriving home - Ted having dropped him off successfully - Brian kicked back on the sofa, bare feet on the coffee table, a tumbler of Beam in his hand, admiring the slip of paper with the name of his new agency. The small piece of paper was propped up against the sketch which had made his employees so inquisitive.

Eyeing the sketch critically, the adman smugly proclaimed, “Perfectly proportioned.”

Brian drifted off to sleep imagining how he’d fuck the blond artist into working for him. It might take a while… his new furniture needed christening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Who’s on first?” is the signature comedy routine of Bud Abbott and Lou Costello. In the baseball skit, the names of the infielders are: Who (first base), What (second base), and I Don’t Know (third base). If you’d like to check out one of the recordings, go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTcRRaXV-fg
> 
> Quid mirum = What a surprise
> 
> To see the graphics for this chapter - including the name of Brian's agency - go to: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=27
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! We packed so much into this chapter that it rivals the Thanksgiving chapter in length. You may want to split up your reading into more digestible chunks. :)

Brian let a long sigh escape his lips as he felt the body above him press closer, slick skin sliding across his. He spread his legs a little wider to accommodate the hand working between his thighs and opened his mouth in a silent scream as a warm mouth enveloped his member.

It didn’t stay for long, though, cool air washing over his wet dick as the mouth lifted off with a quiet squelch.

“Put your mouth to work, Kinney,” his companion teased, “or you’re gonna lose the bet in no time flat.”

“No need for me to reciprocate just yet,” Brian retorted, taking care that his voice didn’t sound strained. “ _I_ have willpower.”

Said willpower was immediately put to the test when the other man pressed a thumb against _that_ spot behind his balls and gently rubbed - all whilst running the tip of his tongue under Brian’s glans. “Fuck,” the brunet grunted, unable to hold still, his hips bucking upward. The movement shifted the pressure of the dexterous fingers inside of him, not helping at all in his quest not to come before the blond.

Although the fingers and thumb continued to torture him, the tantalizing swiping motion of the wet tongue suddenly ceased, and the sweat-dampened skin above his lifted away, a sucking noise ensuing as their bodies separated. “Don’t stop,” Brian involuntarily protested, his eyes popping open.

“Low-hanging fruit,” the teenager tempted his lover, swaying his hips, his balls dangling enticingly above the brunet. Glazed blue eyes met hazel ones, as the men looked at each other down the length of their torsos.

Brian snorted, the sexy mood lifting a little, giving way to a more lighthearted atmosphere. “Get back to work, Taylor,” he told his lover, “and maybe you’ll get rewarded for your efforts.”

“It’s not _work_ ,” the blond retorted, pouting slightly. “But it is supposed to be reciprocal.”

Throwing a smirk at Justin through the gap in between their glistening bodies, Brian teased, “Is it? I should probably look up the definition of what sixty-nine means - I seem to have forgotten it.”

The teenager giggled. “If you did open the ‘encyclopaedia of sex’, you’d find a photo of us sucking each other off - no words needed.”

“And yet, here you are, talking,” Brian snarked back, giving the member that was swinging above his face a halfhearted lick.

“Is that the best you can do?” Justin taunted.

“No, you twat, that’s the best I _will_ do until you get back to what you were doing before.”

The younger man shot him a dubious look. “You haven’t done much of anything so far,” he observed, “except twitch about, moaning and groaning, while I attend to you.”

Brian thrust his pelvis upward suggestively. “As it should be,” he agreed.

“Because of your supposed _staying power_?” Justin mocked. “You were about to send a geyser down my throat, Stud, if I hadn’t let up.”

Raising his eyebrows, Brian asked, “Why did you then? I thought we had a bet to settle?”

“You _so_ want me to win,” the brat giggled.

“Of course not, you brat,” the brunet immediately denied. “I _want_ you to try - it’s no fun beating someone who’s not giving their best.”

“Uh-uh,” the boy scoffed, “you intend to lose because you want to-” He suddenly stopped, his brow furrowing. “Wait, what’s the wager for?”

Shrugging, the older man licked at Justin’s cock again - just a quick, teasing flick of a tongue. “I don’t care; we’ll figure it out once I win,” he boasted and then finally put his money where his mouth was, starting to suck at the treat being offered to him.

“Mhmm,” the lad hummed in approval, the warm cavern of his mouth slowly engulfing Brian’s cock...

“What the fuck!” the brunet cried out in protest as his lover suddenly vanished. Blinking furiously, but unable to see anything, he flailed about with his arms - only to discover he’d been embracing a pillow, his mouth full of damp cotton.

Spitting out the moistened fabric, Brian stared down at his engorged shaft. “Fuck,” he moaned, missing the delicious warmth that had surrounded him just moments before. He had to get that blond boy back into his bed, stat. As he slowly slid his hand up and down to temporarily assuage his hunger, Brian vowed that, no matter what, he’d track Justin down later today.

 

A bit later, having composed himself after his morning exercise, the adman steered his jeep toward the front entrance of the empty bathhouse. He was deliberately arriving well after the agreed-on time and was pleased to see that Ted was already there, playing his part perfectly - his palms up, shrugging, a hangdog expression on his face. As they’d planned the night before, Brian’s new CFO must’ve arrived exactly at nine o’clock to meet the realtor - a greying, chubby, little guy in a poorly fitting suit. Ted’s body language suggested he’d been explaining for the last quarter of an hour that, while he’d made every effort to convince his boss, it was likely to no avail.

In comparison, the realtor was looking at Ted beseechingly, gesticulating wildly, and talking a mile a minute, undoubtedly touting the desirability of the property.

Brian carelessly parked the jeep at an angle, blocking in the realtor’s car, a nondescript, dark green sedan - probably one of the vehicles he’d previously confused with Ted’s Mercedes. Even though he doubted the estate agent would try to leave before he’d made every effort to unload the bathhouse, the adman wasn’t taking any chances.

An impatient expression on his face, the brunet got out of his jeep. “ _This_ is what you insisted I had to see, Schmidt?” he groused, glancing around disdainfully. “I’m wasting my time.” Brian reopened the door to the jeep, acting as if he were going to climb back in and immediately depart.

“No! Wait! Mr Kinney, please!” the realtor beseeched, scurrying over to the adman and sticking a hand out for him shake. “It may not look like much, but the structure is sound and could be adapted to fit any number of purposes.”

Disregarding the man’s outstretched hand, Brian again glanced around dismissively. “What was this place, anyhow?” he asked with a perfectly straight face. “It’s too small to have been a waterfront shipping facility.”

Theodore helpfully piped up, “I’ve been trying to wangle that information out of Mr Hampson. It seems it was a b-”

Oh, his friend was _good_ , Brian thought. Taking a leaf out of the adman’s book, Ted had intentionally mangled the realtor’s name, further discombobulating the pudgy man.

“Hanson. It’s Hanson.” the guy timorously interjected.

Neither Ted nor Brian paid any attention to the interruption.

“Well?” the advertising exec barked. “Spit it out, Schmidt!”

Fortunately, Hanson was looking at Brian, or he might’ve noticed that Ted was trying to suppress a bout of hilarity at the way Brian had phrased his command. It worked out perfectly though, the accountant gasping, “B- bordello. It was evidently a bordello, Mr Kinney.”

Now Brian wanted to laugh. Ted should’ve been on the stage, he mused. The adman would have to reward his employee with a bonus, the amount contingent on how much Hanson knocked off the asking price.

For the first time ever, Brian decided it behoved him to channel his mum. A look of horror on his face, he accused, “A bordello? A den of iniquity? I could be endangering my immortal soul!”

Hanson’s mouth hung open, but no sound emerged for several moments. “Uh,” he finally choked out, “uh, it was a brothel of sorts. But, uh, it’s been unoccupied for a long time. Maybe you could, uh, cleanse the place?”

“You know, boss, that idea might have merit,” Ted intervened. “Maybe you could _redeem_ the building.”

A frowning Brian appeared to mull over the suggestion while, internally, he was dancing a jig. If the realtor weren’t so desperate to jettison the bathhouse, the adman might fear he was overplaying his hand, but as it was… Thank fuck, he reflected, that other prospective buyers had been so short-sighted as to consider the property undesirable.

Long moments passed in which the advertising exec said nothing, Theodore shushing Hanson when he tried to enumerate the features that made the building attractive. “Stop nattering on,” the CFO hissed, “about how easily the cubicles could be transformed into offices. A God-fearing Catholic like Mr Kinney doesn’t want to think about the uncountable couplings that took place in those cribs!”

Christ, Brian thought, he was going to give himself a hernia trying to suppress the laughter that wanted to bubble up. Fortunately, he was able to transform the looming hilarity into a fiercer scowl. Shaking his head, the adman feigned regret. “I’d have to get a priest in to purify the place. I don’t think even Father Tom, for all that he’s very forward-thinking - _always ready to service the members of this community_ \- would be willing to perform the exorcism.”

Hanson all but got down on his knees in an effort to get Brian to reconsider his decision, wringing his hands and stammering, “I- I could, uh, knock even more off the asking price, and you could, uh, maybe make a donation to your parish to help those who otherwise might, uh, end up in a place like this.”

“There would have to be a significant drop in the fee,” Ted asserted, “to make it worth Mr Kinney’s while.”

Brian put his hand on the door handle of his vehicle.

“Fu- uh, yes! Absolutely!” the realtor yelled before disclosing in a slightly calmer voice, “The owners have given me leeway in arranging a deal.”

“How much less?” Ted rephrased his question, while Brian simply waited in stony silence.

“Twelve thousand?” the hand-wringer squeaked.

“Twenty-five thousand,” the CFO countered firmly, “and that’s just to get us to look inside the building. We’ll negotiate further after we see how much work would need to be done.”

“But that’s highway robbery!” the realtor squawked.

“Hardly,” Ted rebutted drily. “Although you’ve had no potential buyers, Mr Hampson, you’ve barely lowered the asking price.”

If, Brian smothered a laugh, one considered decreases that eventually totalled seventy-five thou _barely_. The initial fee had been grossly overinflated, however, as both he and Theodore discovered when they’d independently researched the original listing.

When the realtor didn’t verbally accede to his demand, the accountant turned to Brian. “I’m sorry, Mr Kinney,” he apologised. “You were right; this is an utter waste of time.”

Crap, Brian worried. Maybe they had overplayed it after all. Hoping nevertheless that the anxious little man would cave, he stayed in character. “I feel soiled just from coming near this den of iniquity. Schmidt, if you ever again come up with a harebrained idea like this one, you’re fi-”

“Huh?” the realtor interrupted, fantically patting his pockets. “Don’t go! I’m just trying to locate the keys to this fuckpa- uh, onetime pink palace.”

The adman exhaled a relieved sigh as Hanson scuttled over to the front door, a keyring clasped in his hand. “You give me a heart attack like that again, Theodore,” he muttered, clapping his friend on the back, “you really are fired.”

A complacent expression on his face, Ted replied, “After enduring his obsequious palaver prior to your grand entrance, I had a good idea just how desperate he is to make a sale. Now that we’ve given Hanson the impression that money matters are beneath you,” the newly minted CFO boasted, “I can drive a hard bargain for you.”

Brian watched as Hanson fumbled with the keys, swearing as they fell from his fingers and clanked onto the cement. “Sorry,” the fellow called out. “I’ll have it open in a jiffy.”

“Christ, he’s a pathetic little toady,” Brian disparaged the realtor. “If he thinks I’m rolling in dough, however, won’t he get suspicious as to why I won’t just pay the asking price?”

“No way. Rich people are the biggest tightwads. They hire minions to make them even richer. In case you didn’t know,” the older brunet pointed to himself, his eyes twinkling, “I’m the minion.”

Brian quickly stifled a chuckle. It wouldn’t do to have the realtor think Ted had cajoled him into a good mood.

The urge to laugh only increased, though, when Hanson crowed, “There! That’s got the motherfuck- uh, fudgepack-” The man abruptly stopped speaking, his face an unattractive, mottled red.

As Brian turned around, attempting to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit, Ted impressed him yet again. Somehow, his friend subdued the hilarity he had to be feeling and censured, “There’s no call for that kind of language, Hampson. You’re only drawing attention to the kind of establishment that existed here. I don’t understand that last reference, however. What were you trying to say?”

The blotches on his face growing, Hanson tried to salvage the situation. “Uh, I wasn’t cursing. Really!” he loudly persisted when the other men cast dubious looks at him. “I was thinking about my mother, you know, and how she packs fudge away at the holidays.”

Ted sighed. “Before you dig yourself in any deeper, Hampson, why don’t you just show us around the building. Mr Kinney’s time is valuable.”

“Right, right.” The cowed realtor pulled the door open and gestured for them to precede him. “This way, gentlemen.”

“The entryway is ridiculously cramped,” Ted criticized as soon as he’d placed one foot over the sill.

“That counter would have to be removed.” Brian tilted his head toward the offending item. “And the wall torn down to open up the space.”

“Undoubtedly costly,” the accountant pronounced, his brow furrowing as Hanson chivvied them out of the entry and down a hallway.

“Whatever were these rooms for?” the adman enquired, stopping dead and peering into one of the spaces. He feigned not to have heard the earlier exchange between Ted and Hanson about ‘cubicles’ and ‘cribs’.

“Er,” Ted leaned over and imparted, “this must’ve been where the _soiled doves_ resided.”

An appalled look on his face, Brian stepped back from the doorway, fastidiously brushing at his Vince Camuto peacoat. “This place would have to be gutted, Schmidt,” he opined.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Mr Kinney,” the accountant agreed. “It’s a money pit. Maybe we should leave.”

“No! Don’t leave yet!” Hanson importuned. “You haven’t seen the best room. It’s a giant space that you could make into whatever you want. It could be a ballroom for dance lessons, a gymnasium, a chapel... It’d be perfect for Bible classes!” the man yelled triumphantly.

Reluctance obvious in the set of his shoulders, Brian growled, “One more room, and it had better be something special.”

“Follow me,” the realtor urged, leading the prospective buyers toward the back of the building. “Ta da!” he announced when they reached the former orgy room. The pudgy guy waved his arms around dramatically. “See? Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Enthralling,” the adman drawled sardonically, “provided I’d never seen a room of any size before.” Looking around, Brian hid a grin as he recalled the chain fuck he’d orchestrated the last time he’d been in this orgy room. That raven-haired guy he’d been ploughing into… damn, but he’d had a tight ass.

Ted’s voice intrudruded on his reminiscence, which was just as well the younger man thought - he didn’t want to pop a boner in front of Hanson and reveal their interest.

“Rotting wood benches, ugly cement flooring, disgusting stains of some kind embedded in the walls,” the accountant derided as he inspected the room. Pausing, he asked, “What the heck? Why is there a drain in the middle of the floor?”

“I think maybe to, er, wash away the...” Hanson flapped a hand helplessly at the drain “...you know.”

“You mean, this room was used for-” Brian spun around, an expression of utter outrage on his face. “Enough!” he barked. “This place is beyond redemption. Schmidt!” the adman ordered, making the accountant jump, “I expect you back in the office in half an hour, at the very latest.” With that, Brian stalked out of the room.

Once he was ensconced in his jeep, the brunet’s shoulders shook as he leaned back in his seat and gave into unrestrained laughter. “Christ,” he howled to himself, “Hanson must think we’re a couple of religious nutjobs.”

His merriment gradually lessening, the adman started his jeep and drove back to the loft, his body periodically vibrating from another gust of laughter.

After parking the jeep - a good block away from his loft - Brian slipped and slid his way along the icy cement. “Bloody Prada,” he half-heartedly complained as his boots failed to grip the sidewalk. He wouldn’t have worn the damned footwear if he hadn’t wanted to fully look the part of a debonair, wealthy man.

Eager to tell Cynthia how thoroughly they’d intimidated Hanson, and also anxious to verify that the dining table and chairs she’d purchased met his exacting standards - the furniture was supposed to be delivered while he was gone - the adman jogged up the stairs rather than wait for the creaky lift. “Cynthia!” he called as he wrenched open the loft door, “You’d better not have gotten me some spindly, overly ornate table and chairs.”

The blonde woman looked up from the new table, where she’d been working on her laptop. Raising one elegant eyebrow, she snarked, “The delivery men did an adequate job, considering how distracted they were by my tits. Oh, and look,” she continued, faking a shocked expression, “this chair hasn’t collapsed under my weight.”

“Ha, ha,” Brian retorted. “Chairs are meant to be sat in; it’s the table I’m concerned about.” In an effort to appear nonchalant, he sauntered over to the refrigerator and drank directly from the carton of guava juice, whilst eying the the table the entire time.

Cynthia rolled her eyes, ignored the gross swigging from the carton - which Brian knew irritated her to no end - and resumed tapping at the keys of her laptop. “Nice try, boss,” she quipped, “but that hardly fools me. You’re itching to take a closer look.”

Giving up the pretence, the brunet crossed over to the table, acknowledging to himself - he wouldn’t want to give his assistant a swelled head by saying it out loud - that the sleek, clean lines of the furniture were exactly to his taste. “Antonello, is it?” he whistled as he ran the fingers of one hand along the table edge. “That must’ve put quite a dent in my AmEx.”

“Antonello Italia,” Cynthia confirmed, before teasing, “You’d be pissing and moaning even more if it hadn’t cost an arm and a leg.”

“Hmm,” Brian murmured noncommittally as he hefted himself up onto the table and bounced a couple of times.

“Holy shit!” Cynthia shrieked. “Are you crazy?”

Before he could respond, Ted expostulated from the doorway, which the younger man had left open, “Christ, Brian. You’re not going to test it for-”

“Fucking,” Brian helpfully concluded, spreading his legs wider and bouncing again.

“Watch out for my laptop!” the blonde warned.

“Have to make sure the table is well-balanced,” the adman unrepentantly shrugged. “Given the way the legs are arranged, it might tip over if weight is applied mainly to one side.”

“Christ, Brian,” a dumbfounded Ted reiterated. “The table could overbalance and split apart underneath you. Don’t expect me to call an ambulance if something happens to you out of sheer, _fucking_ stupidity.”

“What he said,” Cynthia glowered at her boss.

Both warmed and embarrassed by his employees’ concern, Brian flushed slightly as he admitted, “Erm, I knew it was safe. I checked out a similar model with a salesman at Arhaus a few years ago.”

“Checked it out _how_?” the accountant inquired suspiciously.

The younger man smirked. “Just the way you’re thinking, Theodore. The salesman said it was guaranteed not to tip, and offered to demonstrate.”

“Generous bloke that you are, you had to take him up on it,” Cyn muttered, a wistful note in her voice.

Brian eyed her speculatively. “Dark hair, about six feet, olive-toned skin…” he described the man.

“Deep brown eyes, so dark they’re almost black… And he only bats for your team. That’s really not fair.” she sighed.

Ted grinned and, his bearing displaying new-found confidence in his own attractiveness, jested, “I’m tempted to go check out that salesman for myself. Not just any fag in the Pitts gets the Kinney ‘fuck of approval’ after all.”

“Just every halfway good-looking one who’s not a decrepit old fossil,” Cyn jokingly interjected.

While grinning at his blonde colleague in agreement, the accountant shrugged, asserting, “However, I’m dating a hunky professor, so why would I settle for second best?”

Barely refraining from rolling his eyes, Brian sat up straight, his long legs dangling over the edge of the table so that his feet were almost flat on the floor. The notion of ‘settling’ - no matter whether it was for the best or not - went against his principles, but he supposed it might work for some. He wanted Mikey and Dr Dave to last, but that was largely a matter of self-interest, since the good doctor kept Brian’s childhood friend both happy _and_ occupied. Ted was the first of his friends he was genuinely rooting for to make a go of a monogamous relationship.

The adman tuned back in to hear Cynthia warmly declare, “I’m happy for you, Ted. I’d be even happier, though, if your Ben had a handsome, straight brother who’s into gorgeous blondes.”

“Would a cousin do?” the older man enquired.

“First, second, twice-removed... whatever,” the blonde assured him, her blue eyes sparkling. “As long as he’s fit, handsome, and fantastic between and outside the sheets, it’s all good.”

“Intelligence not required?” Ted kidded.

“He can be dumber than a doorpost,” Cynthia mocked, “as long as he fucks like a god. I’m not looking for ‘the one’; I just want to get my rocks off - again and again and again - without having to troll for a guy.”

His assistant wasn’t the only one who wanted to get off, Brian thought rather sourly. Annoyingly, it seemed that only a certain blond teenager could fill his needs at the moment. _Tonight_ , he sent a mental reassurance to his half-hard cock, which was stirring in his pants at the thought of Justin.

As he was about to recall his bantering employees’ attention, Brian suddenly smelled a tantalizing aroma. Standing up, he followed his nose to his kitchen counter, where a basic, black coffee maker awaited him, filled nearly to the brim. The simple machine offended him at first, but then he abruptly remembered the previous day’s fiasco with the DeLonghi piece of shit. Maybe basic wasn’t so bad...

Behind him, Cynthia chuckled. “I was placing bets with myself as to when you’d finally notice your new coffee maker, boss. You must be jonesing for a fix; you’ve only had the one latte from Starbucks I brought you this morning, haven’t you?”

“Hmpfh,” Brian grunted, grabbing the mug, dumping in some sugar, pouring coffee atop the mounded white stuff, and raising the cup to his mouth. “Not bad,” he assessed, adding a pinch of sugar, and smiling in satisfaction as he inhaled the cupful. He quickly poured a refill before turning around.

“Why-” he began, stopping in affront when Ted and Cynthia cackled at him, the older man folding over at the waist and looking in pain from laughing so hard. “Did you put something in my coffee?” he inquired warily.

“N- no,” his assistant gasped, “but I thought you’d want something to memorialise the name I came up with for your agency, even if you won’t be using it officially.”

Brian frowned, holding up the mug in his hand, which he hadn’t noticed, other than to fill it up. For a moment, he thought it was just a plain, charcoal grey mug, and he didn’t get the joke. When he angled the cup to the side, however, he discovered _Ad_ printed in red above a muscled man in a mask and _Stud_ emblazoned beneath the cartoonish figure. The man, who seemed about to burst forth from the dark grey ceramic, bore a perceptible resemblance to Brian.

The adman’s lips twitched as he studied the figure, that Justin must’ve drawn. Really, he decided, it was quite flattering to be depicted as a studly superhero. He particularly liked the way his favourite Armani jacket was hanging off one shoulder. “Where’d you get the sketch of me?” he asked. He tried to puzzle it out, positive the two blondes had never met.

“Not telling,” his assistant answered, sounding almost as bratty as the blond teen.

“Theodore?” Brian questioned.

“No clue,” Ted promptly replied.

Brian was inclined to believe him. Although there was a furtive gleam in the man’s eyes, this had Cynthia’s fingerprints all over it. “Whatever,” he shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. He’d winkle the information out of Cyn at some point; in the meantime, his apparent indifference would niggle at her.

“Not bad,” he reiterated, leaving it to the blonde woman to determine whether he meant the mug or its contents.

“Is there enough left for me to have a cup?” Ted asked, avidly eyeing the mug Brian held in his hands. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

“Had a lot of experience with witches’ tits, Theodore?” the adman quipped.

“For fuck’s sake, Bri,” his friend grouched. “It’s just a saying to express how cold it is.”

“I prefer, ‘It’s monkeys outside.’ ” Cynthia diplomatically interceded. “Speaking of,” she narrowed her eyes at the men, “what happened at the bathhouse? Spill!”

The advertising exec froze in shock. How could he have been so caught up in teasing Cynthia that he hadn’t quizzed Ted about Hanson’s reaction to Brian storming out of the bathhouse? He immediately swung his head toward the accountant, who looked back at him with a shit-eating grin on his face. Ah, he thought, relaxing, the news was good then.

The younger brunet felt laughter welling up all over again as he pictured the flabbergasted realtor. “Make a new pot, Cyn?” he requested. “You’re gonna love this - promise.”

“All right,” the blonde acceded. “But you’re learning to operate the coffee maker by yourself before I leave today. It’s idiot-proof German engineering, so you can’t go wrong.”

“It looks nothing like my Krups that was stolen,” Brian groused as Cynthia discarded the used coffee grounds and inserted a new paper filter. He ignored the implication that he needed a coffee machine for dummies; it wasn’t his fault that the Italian piece of junk had malfunctioned.

“Braun’s even better,” his secretary assured him. “The designers stuck to the basics, eschewing unnecessary frills.”

No one spoke for a few minutes as the coffee percolated, liquid slowly dripping into the carafe. Cynthia busied herself pulling a couple mugs - identical to the one Brian held in his hand except for the _AdStud_ emblem - out of a cupboard and spoons from a drawer.

The adman narrowed his eyes at his assistant, who seemed at home in his kitchen. With the way she’d opened the right cabinet on the first go, he speculated that she must’ve nicked the cup he was holding to have it ‘personalised’ sometime the day before.

“Hold on,” he demanded when the blonde woman removed a small jug from the fridge. He wouldn’t have bothered with the creamer - which was intended for something far too fattening, or the sugar bowl, which was far too small - when he’d purchased his new drink ware, but they’d been part of the set. After pushing them to the back of the cupboard, he’d forgotten all about the useless items.

Cynthia looked at him inquiringly as she set the creamer next to the mugs.

“That had better not be half-and-half,” Brian grumbled. “That stuff’s deadly.”

The blonde had the gall to arch an eyebrow at him and retort, “And sugar’s not?”

“It’s one of Brian’s major food groups,” Ted joked. “You know, along with green apples, dry turkey on plain toast-”

“None of which are _fattening_ ,” the younger man interrupted. “You two had better be careful, or you’ll turn into blimps before you know it.”

“Hasn’t happened yet.” Ted glanced down at himself, giving his stomach a self-congratulatory pat.

“Not to me either,” the slender blonde chimed in smugly. “Anyway, boss, you don’t have to drink the cream.”

“I don’t want it in my fridge,” Brian growled.

“Why?” the accountant laughed. “Afraid the fat’ll glom onto you through some peculiar form of osmosis?”

Not wanting to admit he _might_ just be tempted to use it, Brian kept silent. He needed proper offices to house his recalcitrant employees straight away, or he’d be the one who turned into a blimp.

“There’s skim milk in the fridge for you,” Cynthia chuckled, “should you want to dilute your caffeine with that. If not,” she added wryly, “you can chug it from the carton as an alternative to one of your disgusting soy-blend shakes.”

“I thought you didn’t do soy, in any form,” Ted piped up, looking at his friend in surprise.

“Soy milk is different,” Brian defended himself. “Besides, I only had soy shakes the one time.”

“The _one time_ lasting for six months,” Cynthia elaborated. “You even had me mixing them for you in the break room at Ryder’s.”

“It got rid of that sleazebag who was always trying to grope your ass,” the adman reminded her.

“A soy shake had that much power?” Ted asked, his eyebrows rising in astonishment.

“It not only was a revolting, sludgy brown,” the blonde disclosed, “it also smelled weird. The bloke turned green, rushed over to the sink, and vomited.”

“I tracked Cynthia down to find out what was taking so long,” Brian explained, “entering the room room right as the guy upchucked. It was _that_ odor that put me off soy shakes for good.”

“So, yeah, Ted,” the secretary laughed, “it was a very _powerful_ shake.”

Joining in the merriment, Brian reflected that it might not be such a bad thing that his Vitamix blender had been stolen. He’d used the blender solely for the purpose of those shakes, which really hadn’t tasted very good.

“Now that I know to assiduously avoid soy milk-” Ted began.

“Unless the professor wants you to drink it,” Brian teased, grinning wickedly at his friend.

“The coffee’s done,” Cynthia announced.

“Thank fuck,” Brian and Ted muttered at the same time, the younger man guessing that neither one of them wanted to argue the merits of soy milk.

Ten minutes later, the blonde was in stitches, almost rolling on the floor, as the men regaled her with what had happened at the bathhouse.

“Then, when you flounced out of the orgy room,” Ted continued, “Hanson-”

“I don’t _flounce_ ,” the younger man interrupted. “That’s something Em-”

Brian was in turn cut off by his assistant, who gasped out between bursts of laughter, “You so _do_ flounce, boss.”

“I do not,” the adman contradicted, glaring at Cynthia. “I strut, stalk, storm, stride, but _never_ flounce.”

“You flounce,” the stubborn blonde insisted.

“Either one of you want to hear what happened next?” Ted inquired.

Brian eyed his friend askance, noting he hadn’t recanted that horrible ‘flounced,’ but nevertheless waved at him to go on.

“Even though it was freezing cold inside the bathhouse,” the CFO resumed, “Hanson was perspiring like he was in the depths of hell, certain the deal had gone tits up, babbling about how he’d knock off an additional five grand, beyond the twenty-five thousand that I’d already stipulated before we’d go inside the building.” Ted stopped speaking, smiling in a very self-satisfied way.

“Well?” Cyn urged. “What was your counter-offer?”

“I stared at him as if he were demented, replying, ‘If you seriously want me to talk Mr Kinney into reconsidering, that’s not nearly enough.’

“Hanson circled the drain in the middle of the room over and over, muttering to himself, and tugging at his hair so hard that he undoubtedly left bald patches.”

“He was debating what the owners would accept?” Brian guessed.

“Yep, not even taking into account that I heard every word.” Ted shook his head in disbelief. “I might’ve thought it was all an act - that the asking price for the property was still inflated enough that the buyer would think they were getting a bargain - but there’s no way Hanson’s that good an actor; no one sweats on command like that.”

“Especially not in the midst of a Pittsburgh snowstorm,” Cynthia concurred.

“I stayed ‘in character,’ ” Ted recommenced, “sneering, ‘I’ll be in touch, Hamster, if a godly man like Mr Kinney can be convinced to redeem this _whorehouse_.’ ”

“Holy fuck,” the blonde breathed out.

“As holy as a fuck can get,” Brian mocked. Damn, but he was proud of Theodore. Calling the poor bastard of a realtor ‘Hamster’ was exactly what the adman would’ve done.

“Hanson didn’t cavil about the maligning of his name - if he even noticed it in his overwrought state,” Ted concluded. “Instead he bleated after me as I _strode_ ” - the man winked boldly at Brian as he emphasised his method of locomotion - “out of the room, ‘I’ll make a deal you can’t refuse.’ ”

The three members of the Kinnetik team exchanged amazed glances.

“Well done, Theodore,” Brian acknowledged. He wasn’t much given to praising his underlings, but both Ted and Cynthia were more than mere employees. Without the older man’s hitherto untapped thespian talent, the advertising exec wouldn’t be able to drive such a hard bargain for the bathhouse.

“Okay,” Brian exhorted, briskly rubbing his hands together, “how low can we go and have the bid accepted?”

The three of them swilled multiple cups of coffee as they debated the lowest possible bid. While Ted and Cynthia created and revised spreadsheets, Brian scribbled figures on scraps of paper - he did some of his best thinking with a pen and paper.

A couple hours later, the adman rolled his chair back from his desk. “We’re agreed then? We’ll lowball at fifty-three thousand dollars less than the current price?”

Both his accountant and his assistant nodded. Standing up, Brian paced over to the bank of windows along the side of his loft. “I wish we could put in the bid right away,” he fretted, “but we need to wait a day or two, so we don’t look overeager.”

“Yeah,” his CFO quipped. “I need a little time to persuade Mr Kinney that a ‘house of sin’ is a good investment. Otherwise, the owners might smell a rat.”

“The ‘hamster’ won’t think something’s off because you want contractors look at the place before you bid?” Cyn worried.

“No, it’s normal practice,” Ted expounded. “When remodeling is involved, the purchaser needs to factor estimated costs into their bid. Hamster will assume I’m assembling data to demonstrate to Mr Kinney that purchasing the bathhouse would be a smart financial move.”

 

While the newly-formed team was discussing the remodel, Justin and Daphne were eyeing the rubbery lasagne on offer in the cafeteria with resigned expressions. “It’s nothing like what Deb makes,” the blond teen mourned as he accepted a helping of the pasta, a side of mixed vegetables, and an anaemic-looking piece of garlic bread.

“You’re spoiled is what you are,” the girl accused, “with your food at the diner comped and Debbie cooking for you every day.”

Justin smirked at his friend, teasing, “We’re kind of shorthanded at the diner, so Debs is on the lookout for a busboy cum dishwasher. If you’re interested, I can put in a good word for you.”

Beelining toward an empty spot in the crowded canteen, Daph set

her tray down, placed one hand on her hip, tilted her head haughtily, and waved the fingers of her other hand in Justin’s face. “Please,” she objected in a la-di-dah voice, “it would ruin my manicure.”

The lad raised a blond eyebrow at his friend, wondering what was up. Daph was a bit of a tomboy and didn’t usually fuss with her nails, other than to file down any jagged edges. An unwelcome voice catcalling, “Fuck, we’re stuck in ‘faggot central.’ ” clued him in that a gaggle of jocks and cheerleaders occupied most of the table, and that Daphne was mocking the pom-pom girls.

Justin was torn between ignoring the rowdy group - provided Hobbs and his buddies would let him do that - and confronting them. The choice was taken out of his hands, however, when one of the cheerleaders sneered, “Are you a lesbo now, Chanders? Turned to the dark side by the school’s token faggot?”

“Nah, she’s just a hag to the fag,” one of the athletes claimed, hee-hawing at his own cleverness.

“Hmm,” Daphne mused, tapping a forefinger against her lips. “You lot must all be closet cases, since you’re so familiar with queers.”

“I’m not a queer!” Chris shouted, his face turning red as he rose from his seat.

Protesting too much as usual, Justin observed.

Before the situation could escalate, Sydney urged, “Ssh. That horrid, hatchet-faced monitor - you know, the one who likes to send students to detention for the least little infraction - is watching us.”

The entire group quietened, Hobbs immediately sinking down although he sent a death glare in Justin’s direction.

Leaning against Justin, Daphne whispered, “I don’t see Hatchet-Face anywhere.”

“Neither do I,” Justin agreed, unobtrusively glancing around. All the students were cautious when the beldame was on duty; she really did have a habit of coming down hard on those involved in a disturbance, regardless of whether or not they were popular - or at fault.

“Why would Sydney jump in like like?” the feisty girl wondered, before asserting, “It’s not like I needed rescuing. ”

Justin shrugged, not wanting to say anything where he might be overheard and set Chris off again. He did want to get Daph’s opinion of the cheerleader, but that could wait till tonight.

“Maybe she’s on something,” Daphne speculated, her voice rising slightly. “I mean, she was almost civil this morning. She didn’t exactly acknowledge you, but she didn’t make one of her snide comments either.”

Justin floundered for a change of topic before they drew unwanted attention, but the other subject he particularly wanted to share with her - the mattress auction and how he didn’t actually have a stalker - was also off limits, given the current company. Ah, he thought, as he lifted a spoonful of the dried-out veggie mix, he could always disparage the godawful cafeteria food some more. “Gross,” he said. “Look at the white spots on these vegetables. They must’ve dredged these up from the bottom of the freezer before heating them; they’ve got freezer burn.”

For a moment, Daph looked confused, but then she caught his mouthed, ‘Later,’ and played along. She scooped up some of the veggies for herself, before letting the spoon drop onto the plate, her nose scrunched up in disgust. “No way am I eating those.” She then poked at the lasagne before giving up and shoving away her tray.

“Maybe it’s edible,” Justin stated dubiously, sawing at the pasta and raising a bite to his lips. He chewed for what seemed like forever before finally managing to swallow the lump. “Ugh,” he muttered, not bothering with the limp garlic bread, and pushed his tray over to join Daphne’s.

“You got any lemon bars to tide us over, Jus?” the girl asked hopefully. “The ones you brought yesterday really hit the spot.”

“I’ve got something even better,” Justin enthused, rooting around in his knapsack. “Debbie baked a batch of Butterfinger cookies from scratch last night.”

“Gimme!” Daph commanded, snatching the Ziploc container from his hand as soon as he’d retrieved it. Popping open the lid, she crammed one of the cookies into her mouth.

“And you ride me about my table manners,” Justin kidded, reaching over his friend’s arm to grab a cookie for himself.

“Well, duh,” the girl retorted, elbowing her bestie. “You’re all about feeding that beast you call a stomach. Are you sure you aren’t part bovine?” she teased. “The second stomach growling as it senses food entering the first one, then the third and fourth joining the chorus.”

“ _Moo_ ,” the blond teen lowed, drawing out the sound. “You’ve sussed me out, Daph.”

“Pathetic,” his friend pronounced. “I bet Harley could do better than that.”

Pretending affront, Justin rolled his eyes. “Right, like a budgie chirping, ‘Moo,’ would sound more like a bull than I did.”

“A bull?” Daphne laughed, raising her eyebrows in mocking disbelief. “At best a sick cow.”

“Hah! I’m no cow or steer,” the teenage boy defended himself. Leering at his friend and wiggling his eyebrows, he drawled, “My gonads are in perfect working order.”

“That doesn’t mean you know how to imitate a bull’s bellow,” Daph maintained, grinning impishly as she stuffed another cookie into her mouth. “Like I said, at best a sick cow.”

Justin reached over for another helping of gooey goodness, but felt nothing except plastic. “You ate the last cookie!” he sputtered. “I didn’t get but two, and I know there were at least six in there.”

“You snooze - or in your case _moo_ \- you lose,” the girl joked as she stood up, hoisting her backpack over one shoulder. “Besides I needed them more than you do.”

“How’s that?” the blond asked, his brow furrowing as he followed the girl to drop off his still full tray.

“I want to grow my tits,” Daphne quipped, “whereas your bodacious behind is already fully formed.”

Justin shook his head fondly. “I could’ve sworn you learned about physiology with me, Daph. That’s not how it works.”

“It will for me,” she insisted as they exited the refectory and wended their way toward their physics classroom. “It’s all about mind over matter.”

“Let me know when you’re on Oprah.” the lad giggled, holding open the classroom door. “I’ll believe you then.”

“At last,” an irritated female voice exclaimed, causing Justin to look toward the front of the room, where Ms Mefford, the younger - and pudgier - of the two school secretaries, was standing next to the physics instructor.

Mr Horner appeared to be remonstrating with the secretary, the blond teen catching a reference to “coursework being more valuable than an arbitrary meeting,” but he finally nodded curtly, turning away from the woman.

As if Justin should’ve known she was there to collect him, Mefford ordered, “With me, Taylor.” and flounced out of the classroom.

The blond turned his head to the teacher, a questioning look on his face, which prompted an explanation, “Principal Perkins wants to see you. In case you don’t make it back before class ends, why don’t you leave your homework with Ms Chanders. She can check yours as well as hers.”

Daphne cast a concerned look at her friend but immediately agreed. “I can bring it to you tonight, Jus.”

The lad quickly dug out the assignment and handed it to his friend with what he hoped was a reassuring smile - even though he was also somewhat worried about why the headmaster wanted to see him; he’d never been pulled out of class before. He then trotted after Mefford, who was waiting outside the classroom, impatiently tapping one foot against the floor. He wondered why she hadn’t left him to follow along since he knew the way to Perkins’ office, but he didn’t ask since she was clearly in a strop - her thin, mousy brown hair swinging from side to side as she stomped toward the stairs. When she muttered something about how he’d probably take off for the day if she didn’t escort him, the blond’s nervousness increased. It sounded serious.

“Have a seat,” Mefford said, pointing toward the chairs outside the headmaster’s sanctum. “Dr Perkins will be with you shortly.”

After he’d been sitting there for five minutes, the teen decided, fuck this; he wasn’t going to fret himself silly waiting on Jerkins. He pulled out his sketchbook and began drawing, endeavouring to capture the petulant expression on Mefford’s face and the sour one on Cuthbert’s. The two secretaries periodically sniffed at him dismissively, but neither one was as overtly hostile as the last time he’d been in this office, less than two weeks ago. Mefford did vaguely gesture in his direction and say, “That fa-” at one point, but she immediately shushed when Cuthbert frowned and shook her head.

Justin doubted they’d suddenly learned to behave in a professional manner, but he couldn’t figure out what was going on. A good while later, when he’d given up on making it back to physics and was beginning to wonder if he’d miss his IT class as well, Perkins finally jerked open his door. He essayed a look that might’ve been meant as a smile but came across as a grimace. “Good. You’re here, Mr Taylor. Come in.”

Maybe it wasn’t so bad then, Justin thought as he followed the principal into his office. Perkins hadn’t been this cordial toward him since he’d been outed.

The headmaster waved Justin toward a chair in front of his desk before planting himself on the other side, taking a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his forehead with it. Then, bracing his fists against the top of his desk, he began, “I’m disappointed, Mr Taylor, that you’d question our impartial treatment of all students here at St James. You really have no grounds for complaint.”

The blond lad frowned. What was the man on about? He’d never actually brought a complaint, although he had tried to get a new locker assigned.

Jerkins looked distinctly uneasy as he reached up and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, sententiously declaring, “Rather than siccing the police on me, you should have come to me if you had a problem. My door is always open.”

Justin suddenly realised what was going on - Detective Wen must’ve paid the promised visit to St James and bearded Jerkins in his office. He was hard put to stifle a laugh, but he managed an innocent look, as if he had no idea what was going on.

For the next ten minutes, the principal blathered on about police intimidation, how the diminutive Chinese woman had completely disrupted his day, and the importance of school procedures and policies. Perkins never gave Justin a chance to say anything, which was just as well, since the teenager was certain he would have burst out laughing if he’d opened his mouth.

“Remember, Mr Taylor, I expect there will be no more visits from your friend with the police,” Perkins reiterated as he guided Justin out of his office. “There’s no call for such unpleasantness.”

That was nicely understated, the lad thought. He understood now why he’d had to wait so long to see the headmaster, who had trembled slightly while talking at Justin; the man had been trying to compose himself after the ‘unpleasant’ visit from the terrifying woman.

Noting he had a little time before his IT class, but not enough to make it worth returning to physics, Justin rushed to the restroom, where he leaned against the wall and howled with laughter as he envisioned the stone-faced detective putting the fear of Wen into his headmaster...

 

Back at the loft, Brian closed his cell phone after placing an order for a late lunch. “Besides the remodel,” he ordered “let’s review the other costs necessary for this start-up. I want to have everything lined up before I approach PNC Bank for a loan, since my settlement from Ryder will only stretch so far.”

Cynthia nodded, ticking off on her fingers, “Staffing, including salaries, vacation and sick leave, and bonuses. Health insurance. 401(k) or another pension. Legal retainer. Taxes.”

“The IRS will always wants its cut,” the CFO wryly inserted.

“Death and taxes,” the adman murmured, referencing the adage.

“Franklin had that right… unfortunately,” Cyn ruefully agreed.

“Leave it to old Ben to implant Defoe’s truism in our heads,” Ted grinned.

“Constitutionally,” Brian drolled.

Groaning, Cynthia resumed, “A comprehensive insurance policy.”

“It might be a good idea,” Ted interposed, “to purchase that insurance now, while we’re working out of your loft.”

“Seems like a lot of bother for what will hopefully be a short time.” Brian replied.

“Once the agency is registered as a legal entity, it will be advantageous tax-wise,” the accountant hinted, “since you’re using your home computer and phones for business purposes.”

“If it’ll defray what I have to shell out to Uncle Sam, by all means go for it,” Brian acquiesced.

“Since you’re also using your jeep for business purposes,” Cynthia commented, “you might want to class it as a company car. In that case, you’ll want a vehicle insurance policy, which could be later be adjusted to cover other company vehicles.”

Ted’s brow furrowed in consternation. “Wasn’t your jeep provided by Ryder?” he probed. “Weren’t you required to turn it in?”

“Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about my jeep in conjunction with ending my employment,” Brian divulged. “A certain bulldyke lawyer, however, reminded me and then raised the topic during my termination meeting - before we got into the nitty-gritty negotiations about the severance amount.”

“What!” the irate blonde woman gasped. “You never mentioned that. Give!”

“You should’ve seen the constipated expression on Marty’s face,” the adman chuckled, “when Melanie matter-of-factly assumed that he’d be transferring ownership of the jeep to me, brazenly sliding an automobile transfer agreement across Ryder’s desk.

“Ryder just about exploded since the jeep is practically brand new. But then his desiccated, beanstalk legal beagle intervened, recommending that Marty might as well let me keep the car. He barely refrained from saying that no one else would want a vehicle that had been contaminated by a faggot, changing his wording at the last moment to something along the lines of ‘an employee accused of sexual harassment.’ ”

“What an asshole.” Ted swore.

“Ryder spluttered about how the jeep could be returned to the dealer, intimating that it could be sold to another ‘faggot.’ Melanie cut him off mid-word, though, bringing up the spectre of a defamation lawsuit.

“Boy, did that ever make the legal fossil blench,” Brian joyfully recalled. “Marty’s lawyer grabbed him by the arm and whispered in his ear. After a few tense moments, Ryder folded, conceding that I could keep the jeep, that they’d just deduct the value from my payout.

“By the end of the meeting, the bulldyke had them so tied up in legal knots - again threatening them with a defamation lawsuit - that they signed the termination agreement _and_ the vehicle transfer without dickering further.”

“Christ,” Ted choked out through a bout of laughter, “you really took them to the cleaners.”

Cynthia giggled. “Your jeep must’ve added, what, another twenty thou, to your severance package?”

“More,” the adman complacently asserted. “I had some bells and whistles thrown in at the dealership.” In a way, Brian supposed, Craig had done him a favour by rear-ending his old jeep. He’d ended up with a newer, fancier model - at Marty’s expense.

Shaking her head in amusement, the blonde woman redirected their attention to the insurance topic. “According to my research,” she informed her colleagues, “we should also have business interruption insurance.”

“We’re going to adhere to the United States Postal Service creed,” the ad exec declared. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor-”

“You’ll be running the agency all by yourself if the furnace packs up in the middle of winter.” Cynthia denied.

Ted’s head bobbed up and down in vehement agreement. “It’s not like we’d be able to rely on courier services like UPS and FedEx if their trucks are snowbound and the airports are closed.

“Pussies,” Brian grumbled, lumping them together with the useless Pittsburgh realtors. “They shouldn’t let a little snow hinder them. But, based on the mess caused by the first snowstorm of the season,” he conceded, gesturing toward the windows, where they could see more snowflakes swirling around, “that interruption insurance will prove useful. What other expenses are on your list?”

“Utilities. Office equipment and furnishings,” Cynthia enumerated. “Office supplies. Travel, including mileage and per diem. Catering fees.”

“We need to pad everything,” the CFO asserted, “to account for unexpected expenses.”

“True,” the blonde woman joshed, “in case any of our new hires run screaming after Brian terrorises them.”

“Murphy’s law?” Ted wondered.

“Kinney’s law,” Brian gloated.

“It’s a thing,” Cyn stated solemnly.

The three friends cracked up before buckling down and analysing expenditures. While they consumed the Thai food that had just been delivered, the discussion turned toward office layout and staffing.

“If I’m going to meet with the contractors tomorrow morning,” Theodore said, “I’d better have a pretty good idea of what you want done, Bri.”

“Here,” Cynthia turned her laptop around, showing the two men a basic outline of a building. “We can fill in some of the features you envision.”

“An open floor plan,” Brian instructed. “We’ll want lots of light throughout” - he pointed to one section of the diagram - “but especially in the art department. More windows and skylights will need to be installed.”

“You know,” Ted mused, “once the grime is cleaned from the glass blocks in the orgy room and elsewhere in the building, they’d be a great light source.”

The adman glanced approvingly at his friend, murmuring, “Great minds, Theodore. Our executive offices are going to be at least partially surrounded by those opaque blocks.”

“How about the main conference room as well?” the blonde suggested.

“Good idea,” Brian responded, jotting down a note before stressing, “I want to incorporate as many of the original features from the bathhouse as possible, while modernising the building.”

“You want it to have sex appeal.” Cynthia smirked at her boss.

“Damned right, I do.” the advertising exec declared. “Sex sells, and we’re going to be pitching sex in most of our campaigns, whether subtly or overtly. Kinnetik’s premises should reflect that.”

“We can leave some of the fixtures embedded in the walls,” the older man proposed.

“Can’t you just picture a prospective client turning the knob beneath a showerhead and getting drenched?” Cynthia questioned, laughter dancing in her eyes.

“Christ, it’s tempting to leave one of the showerheads functional…” Brian deliberated.

The older man choked on his spoonful of green curry chicken. “Washing them free of sin,” he finally gasped.

“Born again!” the blonde guffawed.

“Even if it can’t be functional, it could be affixed to a wall outside the conference room, the floor sloping slightly toward the drain in the center of the floor.” Brian decided.

“I can’t wait to hear all the wild theories.” Cyn grinned at her boss.

Ted chuckled. “They’ll definitely have sex on the brain.”

“Do you have a firm in mind for the renovations?” the blonde queried. “I can call now and arrange for them to meet Ted tomorrow morning.”

“DC Mullins did a good job on my loft remodel,” the adman replied. “They’re local, licensed and bonded, handle electrical and plumbing as well as construction, and they’re equal opportunity employers, period.”

The older brunet whistled, “That’s rare in a mostly white, male-dominated, macho industry like construction.”

“DC was pissed when his father exiled him from his family after he came out as gay,” Brian divulged, “so in a giant fuck you to dear old dad, he got together with a couple of friends, one of them straight, the other a lesbian, and started his own company.”

“Is that the tattooed bloke who came by your office during the aforementioned remodel, threatening to rewire the kitchen outlets so you’d end up electrocuting yourself if you didn’t stop micromanaging him and his crew?” Cynthia inquired, her blue eyes glimmering with amusement.

“I was not micromanaging,” the adman protested. “I simply wanted him to measure the space for my bedroom closet again. It’s important,” Brian waggled his eyebrows, “to take advantage of every inch.”

“Hmm,” the blonde hummed. “‘For the fifth time,’ ” she quoted the construction worker, “‘just like with every other aspect of this remodel!’ Must be why he was ranting and raving about _Control Freak Kinney_.”

“He really does know you, Bri,” Ted marvelled.

“You need to come up with a new comedy routine,” Brian grumped. Secretly, he was enjoying the banter and the challenge of trying to get the best of his friends.

Evidently reading his mind, the blonde quipped, “Maybe after I meet _Who’s_ on first.”

Shit, Brian thought when his little head plumped in response to Cyn’s allusion to the teenaged brat. In an effort to divert himself, he speared a bite of Theodore’s curry off his plate.

“Hey!” the other man squawked, “That’s mine!”

Cynthia leaned closer to Ted and imparted in a low voice, “He’s a sneaky food snitch. He knows the calories don’t count if they aren’t from his plate.”

Sitting back up, Cyn sighed. “I don’t know if I can cram in another bite of what may be the best Thai food I’ve had in the Pitts. What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“Damned if I know.” Brian shrugged. “The food’s from a hole in the wall two blocks over. There’s a takeout counter and a few rickety tables, but I’ve never seen anyone actually eating inside. The food _is_ good, but I’d never dine in a dump like that.”

Sotto voce to Cynthia, Ted ribbed, “But he frequents the Liberty Diner, which isn’t much more than a dive, and always complains about the quality of the food.

Brian had to settle for glaring at the older man, since he could hardly refute that accusation.

“Where’s the menu?” the blonde asked. “The name must be on there.”

“The menu fell apart ages ago,” the adman explained, “but by then I’d memorised my preferences and entered the number into my mobile under ‘Thai.’ ”

“You’d better have a menu for me in the next couple of days, boss,” Cynthia threatened, “or you’ll be down one employee.”

“Aren’t you working pro bono?” Brian jested.

“Jesus, I hope not,” Cyn objected, “even if I am sans contract and putting in more than banker’s hours.”

“This has to be sorted,” Brian pronounced, “ _now_.” A gentleman’s agreement might be fine for the short term, but it wasn’t the way he wanted treat his core employees. On that thought, he grabbed his cell phone, flipped open the cover, scrolled through to Mel’s direct office line, and pressed ‘send.’

After a couple of rings, a brisk voice answered, “Melanie Marcus.”

Unable to resist jerking the bulldyke’s chain, Brian stated without preamble, “I need your help.”

“Who is this? How’d you get my numb-” The attorney abruptly stopped talking, before inquiring suspiciously, “Kinney, is that you?”

“Yeah,” the adman confessed, chuckling.

“Normally,” Mel observed, “I’d tear you a new one for that juvenile stunt, - one of my clients could have been in dire need of assistance - but since you’ve admitted that you need my help, I’ll let it go this once.”

Ouch. That round definitely went to the bulldyke. “I do want your assistance with legal matters for my new agency,” Brian clarified. “JKL would be on retainer, with you as our primary legal representative.”

After a beat of silence, the lesbian lawyer asked, “Are you grinding your teeth?”

“Huh?” the adman queried, noticing that he had clenched his jaw.

“It had to be painful to grit that out.” Melanie teased.

Brian grunted noncommittally before prompting, “The retainer?”

“Let me just run it past my partners, although I’m sure they’ll be glad to take you on as a client, with me as your principal contact,” the lawyer replied.

“Good.” Brian affirmed. “In the meantime, do you have an opening to discuss employee contracts?”

“You’re in business so soon?” Mel uttered in amazement. “It’s barely been a week since we negotiated your settlement with Ryder.”

“I work fast,” Brian asserted smugly. “I already have two staff.”

“Ah, Ted must’ve accepted your offer,” the lesbian commented.

Was that an approving note in her voice? the adman wondered.

“When he conferred with me,” Melanie revealed, “I told him to go for it, to leave his humdrum job. I even said you’re a heckuva businessman and that-”

“You did?” Brian interrupted, appalled when his voice rose in pitch to match his astonishment. “Did that hurt?”

Ignoring his quip, the lawyer drawled, “I also warned him that dealing with a drama queen like you will grey his hair prematurely, give him indigest-”

“Enough,” Brian protested. “I’m not that bad.”

“Uh-huh,” Melanie replied skeptically. “My calendar’s jam-packed for the next week,” she then informed him. “How about Thursday, December seventh, at ten-thirty?”

“Can you free up at least an hour?” the ad exec requested. “I’ll be putting in a bid on a property, and I’ll have related paperwork for you to review.”

“I’ve blocked off from ten-thirty till noon for you,” Mel confirmed. Her curiosity evident, she then inquired, “What’s the property-” Brian heard a voice in the background - probably her assistant - before the lawyer abruptly declared, “I’ve got to go. I’m due in court in twenty minutes. Bye.”

Brian smirked as he pressed the green ‘end call’ symbol. Curiosity about the property was going to be eating the bulldyke alive, and she wouldn’t be able to discuss it with Lindsay since it fell under attorney-client privilege.

 

Justin entered the diner, giggling some more as he thought about Detective Wen’s encounter with Jerkins. He hadn’t been able to concentrate in his IT class, but it hadn’t really mattered - Mr Süc and the other students had been distracted as well, concerned about another stormfront which was supposed to move into the area by the weekend. When he’d heard the forecast, the blond had resolved to continue catching the early bus in the morning and, especially, not to miss the afternoon bus. It wouldn’t be right to ask Carl for a lift a second time.

“What’s got you grinning like a loon, Sunshine?” Debbie greeted him boisterously. “You open your mouth any wider, you’ll be able to swallow two dicks at once.”

His face crimsoning, Justin stuttered, “Ehm, I think one at a time’ll do.”

“It’s awkward at best,” a bronzed queen interjected. “No matter how your partners angle their dicks, you don’t get more than an inch or two - not a proper mouthful at all. If you want two cocks, sweet cheeks” - she paused to admire Justin’s bum - “I strongly recommend double penetration. That way you can enjoy the _whole_ shebang.”

The blond lad’s jaw dropped as he stared at the tanned queen in shock. He’d seen DP in porn vids a couple of times, but _never_ was the word that sprang to mind when he thought of being the one in the middle of the sandwich. Heck, he hadn’t participated in a threesome of any kind - although it might be exciting with Brian and another hot guy - let alone anything so daring.

“Christ,” Deb breathed out, “you’ve actually done that?”

Justin wasn’t sure if his surrogate mother was shocked or awed, probably a bit of both. For all the redhead’s bravado when it came to sex talk, the teen suspected she might be relatively inexperienced and would probably prefer to engage in more ‘conventional’ sex.

“A few times,” the queen proudly revealed. “I was so stuff-”

While the conversation was weirdly fascinating, the young man was glad when two lesbians with a crying baby trooped into the diner, one of the harried mothers flagging him down and inquiring, “You got anything to soothe my little girl? She’s teething and has been grizzling for hours from the pain.”

Happy that he’d checked what to do in anticipation of Gus sprouting his first tooth, Justin grinned at the dark-haired woman. “I’ll grab a cold washcloth,” he offered, “and put a crushed ice cube inside.”

“Ta, that would be great.” The woman smiled gratefully at Justin.

Thinking of Gus, the blond teen chuckled as he trotted toward the kitchen, where he grabbed a washcloth and an ice cube, dampening the cloth in cold water before crushing the ice. The tyke still had no teeth, which had caused Brian to fret that his son was behind in his development, especially after Dusty commented that her little girl already had three teeth at four months. Brian was only partially mollified when Justin had gone into PSA mode, explaining that some babies got their first tooth at three months, while others remained toothless until they were past their first birthday.

Dusty chiming in that girls tended to get their teeth earlier than boys hadn’t improved Brian’s mood. It had taken Justin teasing, rather illogically, that Gus must be a natural born cocksucker - after all it was critical that one’s teeth be covered - to get the brunet stud to smile proudly at his son.

“Here,” Justin said as he returned to the booth a couple of minutes later with the washcloth. “I can steep some camomile tea if you’d like, and drop in some ice to make it cold. If you dunk the washcloth in that, it should help. I remember my mum doing that with my little sister.”

“That’s a good idea,” the other mother, a blonde, stated. “Camomile can really assuage pain.”

“Have you thought about a ‘teething star’?” the teen asked. “I read that the vibration distracts babies from their pain. It’s supposed to be better than the rings you put in the fridge or freezer because it’s not too cold for the child.”

“We were on way to the store to see what products are on offer,” the brunette explained, rocking the baby in her arms, “but decided to duck in here since Chrissy was so fretful.”

“Even though our ob-gyn told us that some babies are born with teeth, when that didn’t happen with our baby girl, we foolishly didn’t prepare for Chrissy’s teeth to arrive early. She’s barely two months old!” the blonde wailed, looking just as frazzled as her partner.

“Why don’t we have a spot to eat, hon?” the brunette suggested. “Chrissy looks to be settling down now. We can relax before we bundle up again and brave the store.”

After the women placed their order, Justin started some camomile steeping at the counter, glancing in concern at a rather flushed Deb, who was fanning herself.

“Don’t worry, Kiddo. I’m okay,” the redhead reassured him. “I was just a tad overwhelmed chatting about DP; that’s some racy shit.”

“Erm,” Justin grinned hugely as he recalled the perturbed expression on the face of St James’ principal that afternoon, “speaking of, Dr Perkins looked like he’d been double penetrated today.”

“Really?” Deb asked. “What happened? Did that lady detective visit him?”

Geesh, the teenager mused. Debbie cottoned on much more quickly than he had. Then again, he’d given her a pretty big clue that he wasn’t privy to as he’d waited outside the headmaster’s office.

“Yeah, Perkins had one of his secretaries collect me from my physics class,” Justin shared. “But then, he kept me waiting for, like, half an hour, so I was getting more and more anxious. That it might have to do with the intended visit from Detective Wen didn’t even occur to me.”

“He probably had to change his pants,” Deb opined, smiling in malicious satisfaction. “With the way his hands must’ve been shaking, it probably took forever to accomplish the task.”

Giggling at that visual, the teen resumed, “After Jerkins finally opened his door, he was all false geniality, prating on and on about how St James is fair toward all the students, that he was always there for me, yadda yadda yadda. He tried to twist everything, so it seemed like I’d ‘tattled’ about some minor incident that was hardly worth mentioning. Really, though,” Justin snickered, “it just made me want to laugh, the way he was scrambling to cover his arse.”

“Hypocritical jackass,” Deb fumed. “He’s the one who threatened you with reporting the torched locker to the fuzz. I bet the detective put him in his place, though. She sounds downright scary.”

“I mean, I knew she would,” the teen disclosed cheekily. “She has a resting murder face if I ever saw one.”

“Serves Jerkins right that she put the ‘fear of Wen’ into him,” the fiery waitress chortled.

Justin shook his head, laughing with her. “I hope she never hears us talking about her like this,” he gasped. “I’d probably have to change my pants too.”

Debbie smirked at him before asking, “So how’d things end up? You got yourself a new locker, right?”

“Nah,” Justin shrugged philosophically. “Not that I care. Frau Rose, the librarian, is really cool about letting me leave books with her if I want to. Plus, not using the lockers makes it easier to avoid Hobbs and his cronies; they like to hang out there and bully unsuspecting students.”

Debbie frowned at him like she wasn’t entirely happy, but when she didn’t say anything, the blond disclosed, “The last thing the headmaster said was that he’d appreciate it if my friends didn’t harass him the next time.”

Arms akimbo, her eyebrows rising almost to her hairline, the redhead asked incredulously, “He anticipates a ‘next time’? Doesn’t he know that would mean another visit from Detective Wen?”

“If he’d made that correlation,” Justin chuckled wryly, “he never would’ve said that. No way does he want another visit from Stone Face Wen.”

“Maybe the man does have a mite of common sense,” Debbie guffawed. Sobering, she then stared at the teen, her face earnest. “Promise me, Sunshine, that you won’t wait to report any other incidents, even if it does seem like it’s tattling. I don’t want anything to happen to you, hear? I want you safe. I want you around for a long time.”

Suddenly, Justin had to blink away tears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have such a great surrogate mother. Impulsively, he planted a kiss on her cheek before pretending to wipe away lipstick, as Debs had often done with him.

“You scamp,” the redhead teased fondly, voice a little choked up. Swatting at him with a dish towel, she ordered, “Back to work with you!”

 

At the loft, Cynthia, who’d apparently cleared away the remnants of their lunch while Brian spoke with Melanie, reported, “Everything’s arranged with DC Mullins. He and his foreman will meet Ted at the bathhouse tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. They’ll inspect the place, and then Mr Mullins will provide a cost estimate and a time frame for the remodel.”

“You spoke with Hanson?” Brian inquired of Ted.

“The man was practically crying, he was so ecstatic to hear from me.” Theodore disclosed. “When I explained that there was only a sliver of a chance that you’d decide to invest in the property, he kept repeating, “Just tell me what I can do. I’ll make you a deal you can’t refuse.”

The adman and the accountant exchanged shark-like grins.

“Does that mean…” Cynthia trailed off, raising an interrogative eyebrow.

“You betcha,” Ted gleefully responded. “We can drop our offer some more. Another five to ten thou, I reckon.”

“We’re going to need more staff,” the exhilarated but weary blonde woman declared once they’d settled on lowering their bid by an additional eight grand.

“Soon,” Ted concurred, raising his arms and stretching them above his head, “or we won’t be able to keep up with everything.”

“Contact Gertrude, your friend in Ryder’s accounting department,” Brian directed Cynthia. “Sound her out about whether she’d be interested in working for me and when she’d be able to start. Make sure she’ll keep mum, though; I don’t want Marty to get wind of our plans.”

“I’ll give _Bethany_ a ring this evening,” the blonde promised. “Maybe we can meet somewhere for a drink.”

“Better warn her that she’ll be a jack of all trades for a while,” Brian interjected.

“Mmm,” Cynthia slyly suggested, “I’ll just charge a box of Godiva chocolates to your AmEx and give it to her as an inducement.”

“Buy a box for me too, would you?” Ted requested. “I’m not above being _induced_.”

“Too much chocolate will make you fat,” Brian cautioned.

“You can just work out on the treadmill for an extra hour,” the blonde airily dismissed the adman’s warning, “like Brian did for the _five_ pieces he snatched and gobbled down from my last box.”

“It was the vigorous, hour-long fuck afterward with the guy on the neighbouring treadmill that really did the trick,” the stud proclaimed.

“No problemo,” Ted countered, his brown eyes glinting devilishly. “I’ll have Ben devise a workout regime.”

“Don’t forget to ask about that cousin,” Cyn interjected. “I want a workout partner too.”

“You know, boss, an incentive that would be even better than chocolate,”  the accountant chuckled when Cynthia’s shot a shocked look at him, “would be us acquiring shares in your company.”

“Wow,” the stunned blonde added her two cents, “you’re right. That would be a great incentive. You could offer that option to all new employees. Not that I intend to do without chocolate,” she added with a smirk.

“I’m willing to consider it,” Brian allowed, “but only for the two of you. Now, let’s concentrate on how much time we’ll need before we can realistically open for business.”

“I’ll add to the list of things that need doing, and plug the tasks into our joint calendar,” the blonde offered.

“Assuming that our bid is accepted by the current owners,” the adman mused, “the opening date is contingent on DC’s assessment of the bathhouse building - whether it’s structurally sound and how long it will take to complete the renovations. If all at possible, I’d like to throw open the doors on the second of January, in conjunction with the start of new year.”

Cynthia excitedly proposed, “We could place advertisements in all of the major publications in a lead-up to the grand opening.”

“Invite local movers and shakers,” Ted suggested. “Even if they aren’t on our radar as clients, they’ll spread the word about Kinnetik if we knock their socks off at the gala.”

“Whoa!” Brian reined in his enthusiastic employees. “We have to decide whether it’s even feasible to do everything in one month. Those are good ideas, however, so, Cyn, you’ll put together a list of publications and fees to place the ads. Make sure to include _Pittsburgh Out_.”

Turning to the older man, he observed, “You’ll assemble that list of bigwigs, Theodore. Skip the virulent homophobes - no point in inviting them to voice their hate and cause trouble. Heck, invite Wertshafter when you hand in your notice. That should soften the blow of losing you as an employee.” Brian bit his tongue as soon as he’d uttered those words. If he didn’t watch it, he’d be gushing like a lesbian.

“I’m on to you, Bri,” Ted claimed, making the adman start. The blond brat had forever been saying that to him; of late, the stud had been thinking he wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“How so?” Brian inquired with feigned nonchalance.

“You dangle something enticing in front of me - no, not _that_ ,” Theodore chided when his friend waggled his eyebrows. “I meant the compliment, you doofus, which is supposed to keep me from noticing the assignment you’re dumping on me.”

“You volunteered,” Brian defended himself.

“That’ll teach me to keep my mouth shut,” the older man joked.

“What about a logo and business cards?” Cynthia asked, diverting the advertising exec’s attention. “Maybe Justin could design them?”

“Might as well have him do that,” Brian assented. “I’m sure the boy’ll come up with something classy.”

The team talked through their plans for another hour, parcelling out duties. Finally, taking another sip from his AdStud mug, Brian ventured, “We’re agreed then? As long as DC and his crew can finish the remodel, we’ll be set to open on the second of January.”

Both Ted and Cynthia nodded. “Maybe Emmett could cater the gala,” the accountant suggested. “He’s been talking about how he’d like to get into the party planning business.”

“Honeycutt does have flair,” Brian acknowledged, “but…” He trailed off, concerned that the flamboyant man might go overboard.

“Talk to him,” Ted urged. “He’s chock-full of creative ideas, and he has them all meticulously organised. I’m certain he’d come up with something restrained yet provocative to advertise Kinnetik.”

It couldn’t hurt to do that, Brian decided. Em just might come up with the perfect party to help launch Kinnetik - and generate more business in the process. “Okay, I’ll sound him out,” the adman said. “If you feel compelled to mention it to him in the meantime, make sure he knows to keep his trap shut.”

“For all that he loves a juicy morsel of gossip, Emmett knows how to keep a confidence,” Theodore insisted, looking a bit affronted on his friend’s behalf.

Brian gave his CFO an equivocal, one-shouldered shrug. While the flaming queen was loyal to his friends, it was best to emphasise that all news about his agency had to be kept on the down-low. That was far more important than Emmett’s feelings getting a little bruised.

Glancing at his watch, Ted yelped, “I’ve lost track of the time again. I’d better get going since Wertshafter is expecting me.”

“What do you say we call it a day, boss?” Cynthia asked. “All the numbers in these spreadsheets are starting to run together. Plus,” she held up Brian’s AmEx, “I have to select just the right box of chocolates for Bethany’s _inducement_. That will take a while.”

“It can’t possibly take long to grab a box of Hershey’s,” Brian teased.

Cynthia sniffed dismissively. “As if you’d want an employee who could be wooed with dime a dozen chocolates.”

“Yeah, Bri,” the older man chimed in as he slipped on his coat. “Admit it. You’re a label queen with chocolates too.”

Ignoring his rambunctious friends, Brian helpfully slid open the door to the loft, motioning them out.

Ted, however, stopped with one foot over the door sill. “You know,” he chuckled, “I’ve just realised that I never gave you an answer in regard to working for you.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. That couldn’t be right.

“Really?” Cynthia inquired from the lift, where she was holding the grate open.

“I told you I’d think about it,” the accountant remembered, “and then I took off the past two days to help you out.”

“It’s too late for you to change your mind, Theodore.” Brian smirked, resting a palm against the man’s back and pushing him into the hallway. “We shook on it. So go be a good little accountant and hand in your notice to Wertshafter.” The adman closed the door, shutting out his friends’ laughter, busily strategising how he’d approach Justin.

 

Later in the day, Brian sauntered into the diner, casually looking around for the blond teen. He’d changed into an outfit that made him look even hotter than usual - not an easy feat since he was always drool-worthy, the stud reminded himself. Although he was convinced that Justin would jump at the chance for an all-night fuckathon, he figured it was a good idea to hedge his bets. He’d therefore chosen an outfit that had made it impossible for the lad to tear his eyes away from Brian in the past - a black-on-black Armani ensemble of hip-hugging jeans and a sleeveless, buttoned shirt that showed off his toned arms. Not that he intended to sit around with bare arms exposed for long - it was too fucking cold for that - but once he’d gotten the teen’s attention, he planned to slip a black sweater over the shirt.

The brunet slowly shucked his coat, scarf, and gloves, waiting for Justin to appear. Dammit, he thought, the brat must be in the kitchen. Brian settled into a booth across from the counter, stretching his arms along the banquette. Goosebumps pebbled on his bare skin, and he gritted his teeth, barely restraining himself from grabbing his jumper and immediately donning it.

“Have you lost your marbles?” a woman screeched.

Brian winced. Deb’s less than dulcet voice wasn’t the one he’d hoped to hear.

The redhead popped her gum, poking the arm nearest her. “Even with the heat on, it’s hardly the Sahara in here, buster. Why’re you half naked?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Brian lied.

“Uh-huh.” Debbie cackled, one red talon poking him again. “That’s why you’re all over goose pimples. Looks to me like your teeth are almost chattering.”

Glaring at the interfering woman, Brian clenched his teeth just to be sure he wouldn’t prove her right.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Debs called as the teen emerged from the kitchen, “bring this moron a cup of coffee, wouldya? He’s about to get frostbite; the cold has already affected his brain.”

The blond jogged over with the carafe of coffee, a cup and saucer, and a spoon. “Are you okay?” Justin asked. “You look half frozen.”

The adman wanted to bang his head on the table. This wasn’t going how he’d planned. He quickly dumped sugar into the cup, which Justin promptly filled, eyeing him in concern as he took a sip.

Apparently not noticing the toned arms so tantalisingly on display, the teenager suggested, “Why don’t you drape your coat over your shoulders? That’ll help you warm up.” He reached for the garment as though the brunet were too infirm to do that for himself, uncovering Brian’s sweater in the process. “Oh, this is even better. Here you go,” he said, holding out the garment.

The brunet stud wanted to make a quip about using Justin to warm himself, but he couldn’t do that with Debbie hovering over him. She’d immediately suspect he had ulterior motives. Donning his jumper, he briskly ran his hands up and down his arms. Fuck. That did feel better.

Tipping his chin at the waitress, he sought for a way to distract her and take advantage of the temporary lull, before the dinner crowd came streaming in. He settled on, “I think Fahad’s looking for you, Debs.”

“Hmm?” the redhead responded. “Can’t be. The Finn’s on duty tonight.”

Shit. Wrong cook. Making a mental note to order fish if he decided to eat something, Brian chose a safe subject that should keep the teenager talking to him, offering, “I appreciated your tip about the bathhouse, Justin.”

The blond’s demurral, “It’s not really me that-” was overridden by Debbie exclaiming, “You want the bathhouse for your agency, then? Sunshine told me about Dr Dave stopping by.” as she slid into the booth across from Brian.

The advertising exec made a shushing motion, not wanting any of the other diners to overhear. Fortunately, there was no one seated nearby. “Yeah, it’s just what I was looking for,” he replied. “But it’s not in the bag yet, so I don’t want anyone to queer the deal.”

“Queer the deal!” the redhead guffawed, while Justin giggled. “Good one, Brian.”

The brunet stud realised the inquisitive woman wasn’t going to budge anytime soon, leaving him to persuade Justin to come over for a night-long fuck. He’d have to throttle his impatience and wait for a better opportunity. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt his cause to show a bit of genuine concern for the boy, so he probed, “You didn’t go over to the bathhouse by yourself, did you? That stalker could have been following you.”

“Erm, I thought you’d have heard,” the blond revealed, “there was no stalker. It was just-”

“What the fuck!” Brian barked in irritation, interrupting him. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

The lad looked quite abashed, clearly getting Brian’s message that he should have informed the older man.

“Don’t burst your britches,” Debbie chided. “Sunshine just found out a couple days ago from Detective Horvath. It’s not the kid’s fault that the silly, gossiping queens in this burg fabricated the whole thing, or that they haven’t spread the word that there was no stalker.”

Brian grunted, not particularly mollified, even though he knew the rumour mongers wouldn’t be titillated by such a tame resolution and probably wouldn’t disseminate the news anytime soon.

His irritation eased a trifle when Deb hoisted herself up and left the booth. Snatching his chance, the adman opened his mouth to invite the teen over to the loft, but then the waitress urged, “Shake a leg, Sunshine. Here comes the hungry horde. My shift’s just about over, but I’ll help you take orders until Kiki turns up. She should be here any minute.”

The adman groaned when saw that Michael, Dr Dave, Emmett, and Ted formed part of the horde. His opportunity to talk to the teen was lost for now, since he didn’t want them to overhear. He wasn’t ready to give up though; if nothing else, he could offer Justin a lift home at the end of his shift, taking him to the loft instead of to Debbie’s.

Brian was pleasantly surprised when Michael didn’t crowd into the booth beside him; instead, his friend continued to clutch his boyfriend’s arm, beaming up at the doc as they seated themselves opposite him. He really had made a smart move, the adman congratulated himself again, reconnecting the two men. After a few pointers from Brian, the chiropractor was clearly making Michael happy, and he also seemed to be providing a good role model for the short brunet. His childhood friend did best, he reflected, with someone to give him a bit of direction.

Without bothering with a greeting, Emmett slid in beside Brian, while Ted squeezed in next to Michael. The tall queen enthused, “Did you see the specials? They have crab cakes!”

“Real crab?” Brian probed. If that proved to be the case, he just might indulge.

“Dunno. Let’s find out,” the flamboyant man proposed, calling, “Yoo-hoo, Baby!”

Just finished with jotting down an order for another table of new arrivals, the blond teen hustled over to their booth. “Hey, guys,” he greeted them, flipping his pad to a new page. “You already know what you want?”

“First, I’ll take a hello kiss,” Em purred, tugging on Justin’s arm until the lad obligingly bent over, and bussing him on the lips.

Brian scowled. No one but him should be kissing the blond brat. “Quit pawing at the kid, Honeycutt!” he demanded.

Emmett rolled his eyes, mocking, “Whatever, _Bri_. No need to-”

Defusing the imminent spat, Ted hastily inserted, “We were wondering if the crab cakes are made from real crab.”

“They are,” Justin instantly responded, his eyes lighting up. “No whitefish. And the crab’s really good.”

“That’s what I’ll have then,” Emmett announced, “with a side order of fries and a Dr Pepper to drink.”

Ted ordered the same, while Dr Dave and Brian opted for a healthier side, a green salad, and sparkling water to drink. Brian knew the greens would likely be wilted, but it was still a better choice than fattening fries.

Scrunching up his nose in distaste, Michael asserted, “I don’t know how you all can eat fish. I’ll stick with a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.”

“Uh, crab isn’t fish,” Justin said. “It’s-”

“Yes it is,” the little brunet insisted, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s from the sea. Everything that comes out of that salty water is fish. And it’s slimy!”

“So whales are fish too?” Ted choked out, his eyes dancing with hilarity.

“Yep, really big ones.” Michael affirmed.

Fuck, Brian thought, yet another Jessica Simpson moment. “Michael,” he cautioned, “the Finnish bloke’s manning the cooker tonight, so anything you order is going to taste like fish.”

“You know, babycakes,” David intervened, “crab really doesn’t taste fishy. I think you’d like it.”

“I still want a hamburger,” Michael maintained, batting his eyes at the doc, “but I’ll try a bite of your fish, just for you, honeypie.”

The brunet adman couldn’t quite suppress a flinch at the latest saccharine pet names. He glanced at Ted, catching the man grimacing in disgust, while Em murmured in his ear, “Where are they getting these from? Some kind of specialised muncher dictionary?”

Although Dr Dave and Michael continued to gaze soulfully into each other's eyes, unaware of the other men’s disdain, Emmett’s whisper apparently hadn’t been all that quiet, Theodore leaning over the table and muttering, “Even lezzies aren’t this godawful. Granted, when I stopped by to visit the girls the other day, Lindsay called Gus ‘lambskin’, but at least she was addressing a child.”

Brian frowned, thinking he’d have to call a halt to that. He didn’t want his son to turn into a namby-pamby mama’s boy.

But then, Ted continued speaking, “Mel immediately put the kibosh on mawkish endearments, however, declaring that they should call the tyke by his name, so he’d grow up strong and butch.”

“And recognise his own name,” Brian muttered, sagging in relief and silently thanking the bulldyke for using common sense. He might even show his appreciation somehow, maybe buy her a bottle of Beam to replace the one they’d necked. Not that he’d sample it with her, though; he shuddered at the notion of ever again waking up to the butch lawyer drooling on his chest.

“So,” their blond server requested confirmation, “crab cakes for four of you, two with side salads and fizzy water, the other two with fries and Dr Pepper. Plus one cheeseburger with fries and a Coke.”

“What’re you still doing here?” Michael complained, surfacing from a lingering smooch. “I’m hungry. I thought my burger would be ready by now.”

Visibly gritting his teeth, Justin replied, “Now that _all_ of you are sure what you want, I’ll go place your orders.”

“Wait!” Michael yelled when the teenager was almost to the kitchen pass-through. “Make that a double cheeseburger.”

Brian grinned when Justin’s stride didn’t falter, nor did the lad alter what he’d jotted down before pinning up the orders for the cook to fill. He couldn’t blame the lad for ignoring the last-minute adjustment, something Mikey was notorious for. The brunet stud couldn’t actually recall a time when his friend had eaten only a single patty, never mind one sans cheese, although he’d been known to order a triple burger instead of a double and to supersize the fries. Where Michael put all that fattening food, Brian had no clue; it wasn’t as if he had a bubble butt to rival Justin’s. Of late, Michael had looked suspiciously like he was developing love handles, but maybe he was working it off with the doc’s assistance… Hurriedly redirecting his thoughts before images of such activity cemented themselves in his brain, he blurted, “Who’s your money on to win the long schlong contest?”

The men debated the merits of their favourites, Ted mischievously commenting that if a picture he’d recently seen proved to be unembellished, that man would win hands down. He refused to give into the nelly bottom’s entreaties for more information, however, even when Emmett pouted, claiming he’d take the man for a ‘test drive’ and report back to the gang.

“Don’t worry Em,” Theodore quipped, “I’m quite sure the inches were inflated.”

Brian stewed in silence, unable to determine how to refute the older man’s fallacy without revealing that he was the subject of the picture, and that he’d been the first to purchase one of Justin’s masterpieces.

The gang’s heated deliberations were interrupted by the blond artiste delivering their meals. “What’s this?” Brian asked when the teen slid a small dish of fries in front of him, in addition to his crab cakes and salad greens. “I don’t eat grease.”

“I thought I’d spare Em having you filch from his plate,” Justin teased.

The stud’s huffed, “I’d never!” was drowned out by his friends’ laughter, not even Michael coming to his defence.

It was Brian’s turn to smirk when, seconds later, Michael issued a plaintive, “Why’s my cheeseburger so skimpy?” their blond waiter feigning not to have heard him.

 

Long after the five men had polished off their food, Justin, who was nearing the end of his shift, stopped by their table one last time with the carafe of coffee, in case anyone wanted a refill. “You guys heading over to Woody’s?” he asked congenially.

“Trying to get rid of us, Sunshine?” Brian snarked as he pushed his cup closer to the teen.

“Uh, no, just making conversation,” the teenager stuttered, taken aback by the bite to his ex-lover’s tone. What bug had crawled up Brian’s ass since he’d thanked him for his help with the bathhouse? the lad wondered.

“Let’s leave the muppet to work on his social skills,” Michael sneered dismissively, “and play a couple rounds of pool. I bet my fluffernutter and I can beat you and either Ted or Emmett.”

Justin’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. He’d never heard ‘fluffernutter” used that way.

“Are you comparing Dr Dave to a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich?” Em inquired, coughing, the teen surmised, to disguise a laugh.

“Yeah!” Michael bounced in his seat. “He’s a pale tan on the outside and crea-”

“Honeybun,” the chiropractor interceded, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek, “that’s better kept between us, don’t you think?”

Please, Justin begged in his mind. Please don’t share.

Michael’s slight moue of disappointment became a full-fledged pout when Brian declared, “I’m fine where I am, Mikey. But the rest of you should go ahead. You can demonstrate your newly acquired skills to ‘Temmett.’

“No.” Michael slouched down in his seat. “We’ll stay and keep you company.”

“As will I, for a while at least,” Ted announced, winking at Brian. “My boss cracks the whip early in the morning, so I’m going to pass on Woody’s tonight.”

“Oh pooh,” Emmett declared. “You’re all turning into a bunch of fuddy-duddies, but I’ll stay with you until it’s time to head to Babylon.”

“Hey up, Jus,” Harry called as he dashed into the diner, brushing off a layer of snow. “Soz. I left home in plenty of time, but _màu đỏ to_ doesn’t handle the icy streets very well.”

Taking in his colleague’s dishevelment and wondering for the umpteenth time what _màu đỏ to_ stood for - Harry looked rather embarrassed and refused to translate when he’d asked - Justin teased, “You need to trade in your moped for something more rugged. What’s that make - the third time this week the red beast has dumped you on your keister?”

Right as Harry opened his mouth to defend his beloved motorbike, the bell over the door jangled again, Daphne breezing into the diner this time. “I’m not late, am I?” she asked, glancing at the wall clock. “Fifteen minutes doesn’t count,” she contended, before Justin could say a word.

“Just don’t use that excuse on Dickhead,” Justin warned, as Daph settled into the only empty booth, right behind the one where the gang was seated.

“I wouldn’t dare,” the girl agreed. “I can’t afford any more demerits. C’mon, Jus,” she urged, “we have a shitload of material to cover if I’m going to raise my grades in both calculus and physics.”

Brian’s and Ted’s coffee topped up - everyone else had passed on a refill - the blond lad carried the carafe over to the counter, poured cups for himself and Daphne, and pulled his apron over his head. With a cheeky smile, he tossed the pinny to Harry. “Hang that up for me, would you?” he asked. “And bring us a couple of servings of crab cakes as soon as the Finn has more ready.”

“Crab cakes?” the Asian waiter tossed over his shoulder as he hurried toward the kitchen. “First time we’ve had those in an age. I may have to save them all for myself.”

“Shall we start with physics?” Justin proposed, nudging Daphne over on the seat and handing her one of the coffees. “We haven’t tackled that one yet.”

“Sure,” the girl agreed, hauling the heavy textbook out of her backpack and letting it drop onto the table with a thud. “Oh,” she said, opening her notebook, “here’s the new assignment and your worksheet that we went over in class today.”

The blond turned the paper over and couldn’t find a single mark.

“You could’ve made one mistake, you know, Jus,” Daph responded to his quizzical expression.

With a smug smile, Justin averred, “There’d be no fun in that.”

“No fun. Right.” Daphne shook her head in fond exasperation. “Sometimes I think you live on a different planet. I mean, look at this.” she despaired, showing him her own worksheet, which was a jumble of scribbles and scratched-out answers.

“You’re usually on Planet Brainiac with me,” the boy reminded her, “with your own perfect score.”

For the next forty minutes, the two teens pored over the worksheet, addressing the areas where Daph was having difficulty.

“Fresh crab cakes,” Harry broke into their deliberations, “piping hot from stove.” He waited for them to shove aside their coursework before depositing the steaming patties in front of them, along with a large bowl of onion rings and two ice-cold Cokes.

“Thank fuck,” Daph sighed. “My head hurts.”

“This’ll keep your brain cells churning.” Harry assured her.

“Ta,” Justin thanked his friend, who bustled back to the kitchen window to pick up another order.

Daphne dived into the food right away, inhaling a large bite of crab cake and moaning, “ _So_ good. Will these be a regular menu item?”

“Dunno,” the blond shrugged. “But I’m going to ask Debbie. Her shift ended before these were added to tonight’s specials.”

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, while they ploughed their way through the repast. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask,” Daph suddenly exclaimed, “after worrying all through physics. What happened with Jerkins? Why’d he yank you out of class?”

“What?” Emmett squawked from the next booth, startling Justin, who, intent on helping Daphne, had actually forgotten that Brian and the rest of the gang were there.

“That do-nothing jerk pulled you out of class?” the queen continued, his voice rising in pitch.

As Justin repeated what he’d told Debbie not long ago, he noticed Brian’s eyes were riveted on him and that he was scowling. Geesh, he speculated, was the brunet pissed at him all over again, just because he hadn’t been the first to hear about the meeting with Perkins? He was beginning to feel a bit upset with Brian in return. They weren’t together; he wasn’t obliged to share the details of his life with the man.

Focusing on the tale he was relating, Justin abruptly starting laughing. “I just realised that I didn’t utter one word the entire time I was in Jerkins’ office.”

“He never apologised?” Michael inquired in consternation.

“Nope,” the blond teen verified. “He just talked _at_ me for at least ten minutes.”

“What a prick,” Michael denounced the headmaster.

Surprised by the short brunet’s show of sympathy, Justin could only nod, along with Daphne and the other men.

“The boy is a fount of information today,” Brian drawled in a voice that didn’t sound as indifferent as he’d probably intended. “Turns out the brat doesn’t have a stalker.”

“Stalker?” Daphne queried sharply, punching Justin in the arm. “You thought you had a stalker? You could have been in danger! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rubbing at his arm - his bestie packed quite a punch for someone so small - Justin related the tale of the mattress auction and how it seemed he might’ve acquired a stalker.

“I talked to Todd,” Em elucidated, “but he couldn’t remember where he heard the bit about the purchaser fancying Justin, only that it was probably from a couple of different guys.”

“And you didn’t tell me because?” the irate girl demanded of her friend.

From the corner of his eye, the blond noted that Brian was now smirking at him, evidently pleased by Daphne’s reaction. “Uh, I didn’t want to worry you.” Justin attempted to justify himself. When her glower didn’t diminish, he continued, “Plus I was distracted by the terrible weather on Monday, the results of our calculus test, and…” After pausing for a moment, he finished, “...hunger pangs during lunch.”

Daphne’s lips twitched at his final excuse, but she remained stern. “You should’ve called me on Thanksgiving, Jus, after you found out about the stalker. Think how pissed off you’d be if I’d left you out of the loop about something so critical.”

“Sorry,” the boy apologised. “You’re right. I’d be livid.”

“I’ll forgive you for forgetting to tell me on Monday. Those hunger pangs did drive pretty much everything else out of our heads.” his friend teased as she polished off a second crab cake. “So how’d you find out there wasn’t actually a stalker?”

“Detective Horvath” - he couldn’t bring himself to casually refer to the man as ‘Carl’ in front of everyone - told me on Monday that it was entirely the result of wild, unfounded gossip. I was teed off at first, since I couldn’t go out on my own for _days_ , but now it sounds more like an amusing story.”

“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight,” Daphne asserted. “You got off light, Jus.”

Justin shuddered as he remembered how freaked out he’d been.

“Ehm,” a flustered Emmett interposed, “I’m sorry I helped spread that canard, Baby.”

Michael frowned in confusion and asked loudly, “Why would you care about spreading a duck?”

“Uh?” Emmett replied, everyone else looking equally bewildered. “What duck?”

“You know,” Michael prompted. “A big duck, like the Canard cruise ship.”

Laughing hysterically, Emmett choked out, “A _canard_ is not a duck, sweetie.”

“And the name of the cruise line is _Cunard_ ,” Ted enunciated precisely, “not canard. Anyhow, why would you think a canard is a duck?”

Justin noticed that not only were he, the guys, and Daphne glancing inquiringly at Michael, so were patrons at nearby tables.

The short brunet squirmed in his seat and, his brow furrowing in perplexity, he turned to David. Again mispronouncing the word, he asked, “Don’t you think ‘cunard’ sounds like a duck?”

“Sure, Honeybun,” the doc replied, sounding dead serious. “It’s a logical word association.”

Christ, Justin mused, Dr Dave was dumbing himself down to Michael’s level.

Relieved, Michael broke out in a giant grin, crowing, “I knew it! You guys need to look in the dictionary. I bet it’ll show a ‘cunard’ is a male duck!” He jumped up, saying, “I’ve gotta tinkle; I’ll be right back.”

“Tinkle?” a queen at a nearby table questioned in disbelief. “How old is he again?”

“That explains all the squirming,” Emmett giggled.

“We’re trying to eradicate ‘bad words’ from our speech,” David proudly claimed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Brian drawled insolently.

The blond couldn’t see Dr Dave’s face, since the man had his back to him and Daphne, but he did hear the bitten-off retort, “You ass-”

The two teenagers giggled, returning to their study session, while the gang hotly debated the usage, efficacy, and relevance of curse words.

About an hour later, Daphne rested her head on her textbook, groaning, “I don’t think I can handle any more, Jus. Information overload.”

“You’re doing great,” the blond lad encouraged his friend. “I’ll just grab a couple lemon bars; a sugar boost should do the trick to get us through the last couple of problems from today’s assignment.”

Justin had been so engrossed in helping his friend complete the new homework assignment - he thought it was pretty easy, although he knew better than to mention it - that he was startled to find the gang still firmly planted in the neighbouring booth. What the heck was up with that? the teen puzzled. From what he could ascertain, the men had returned to the topic of a name for Brian’s agency, with Michael again lobbying, loudly, for TopAd. The blond was itching to find out whether the adman had decided to go with his proposed name, but he refused to ask.

He was surprised when Daph didn’t immediately scarf down the sugary morsel that he’d placed in front of her. Instead, she picked at one edge, seeming to dither about something. “Uh,” the flustered girl suddenly blurted, “I dumped Glenn today.”

“That’s good?” Justin half-stated, half-asked. “As long as it’s something you wanted to do anyways.”

“Erm, yeah, he was forever pressurising me to go all the way,” Daphne revealed.

“Good,” Justin said firmly. “The choice should absolutely be yours.”

“Uh, about that,” the girl forged ahead, cheeks pink, “would _you_ be my first?”

Flabbergasted, the teen could only stare in shock for a moment, wishing that he’d phrased his previous statement a little differently. While he fumbled for a response that wouldn’t hurt his bestie’s feelings, he glanced at the adjacent booth, where, fortunately, everyone still appeared to be involved in a ‘name that agency’ discussion. He was certain neither he nor Daphne would want any of the men to overhear this conversation.

“Daph,” he gently declined, “I’m flattered, but I’m not the right person. You should have sex for the first time with a guy you’re in love with.”

“But,” his friend protested, “there’s no way you were in love with Brian that first night. Infatuated… maybe, but not in love.”

The lad could feel himself flushing as he acknowledged, “No, not right away. At first, it was nine-tenths lust… and one tenth something else. I like to think that one tenth was love. I was nervous as all get out, but Brian was really sweet in the way he picked me up, for all that he was high on E.” Justin peeked at the other booth again, verifying that the gang was occupied. He could just imagine his former lover’s reaction to being called ‘sweet’.

Daphne was gazing at him with stars in her eyes as he resumed, “I mean, sure, he teased me about the clubs I was supposedly checking out, but he could’ve been really cruel about it. Instead, he made it clear that he thought I was hot and that he wanted to fuck me.”

“You don’t want to fuck me?” the girl asked, the hurt expression Justin had been dreading settling over her face.

“Hey,” Justin cajoled, bumping her shoulder with his own, “I’m gay, remember? I could probably get it up, but that’s not the same as being into it.”

Daphne giggled a little, before wistfully commenting, “If you weren’t gay…”

“I’d have you in bed so fast, you wouldn’t know what hit you,” Justin assured her. “The bloke you do have sex with, though, should be someone who will want to have sex with you more than once. He should make you feel _hot_ , like Brian did for me.”

His bestie heaved a sigh. “Well, that’s definitely not Glenn. He made me feel more like a handy kewpie doll than someone he desired.”

“Tosser,” the blond lad growled. “Fuck him.”

“Or not,” Daphne laughed, her normal good spirits beginning to return. “I’ve been a total moron,” she declared, “so absorbed with that wanker and fretting about losing my virginity that I’ve let my grades slide. I’m gonna swear off boys for now, and buckle down and study.”

“It won’t take you long to improve,” Justin asserted, “now that you’re applying yourself. Look how much you’ve caught up on physics in just one session.”

Frowning, Daphne bemoaned, “But it’s well past ten, and we haven’t gotten to calculus at all.”

“Your grade on the calculus midterm went from a D- to a C,” the blond reminded her, “so you’ve already made a big leap.”

“True,” Daphne allowed, “but I’ve got a long ways to go if I’m going to raise my grade to at least a B- and earn the bonus my folks are dangling in front of me. Flaming heck,” she pouted, “I feel like a donkey chasing after a carrot that’s just out of reach.”

“Just don’t start braying,” Justin mocked, earning himself an elbow in the side. “Jesus, Daph,” he complained, rubbing at the spot, “you’re turning me black and blue all over.”

“Wuss,” the girl accused, elbowing him again.

“Speaking of grades,” Justin prompted as he scooted to a safer distance, “who do you think turned up last night?”

“Huh?” Daphne’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “What are you on about?”

“Grades,” the blond reiterated. “The diner.” When her blank look didn’t alter, he provided another clue, “tutoring,” and finally, “pom-pom girl.”

“Sydney?” his friend squealed. “That stuck-up bitch showed up _here_?” She glanced around, clearly unable to visualise the cheerleader in this setting.

Justin chuckled at his friend’s gape-jawed disbelief. “That was pretty much my reaction,” he admitted. “In fact, I didn’t recognise her at first; she was so out of context. I have to say, though, she handled herself with aplomb, pretending to be unfazed and ordering me to ‘get with the program.’ ”

“Her usual bossyboots self, then,” Daphne inserted with a roll of her eyes.

“This time, I think it was more out of defensiveness than anything else. I couldn’t help but admire her for venturing into the diner,” the blond teen reflected, “so I told her to take a seat until I was finished with my shift. I figured I could talk with her then and decide whether or not to offer her a bit of help.”

“Was she on her best behaviour?” Daph asked cynically. “Since she needed you?”

The lad proceeded to relate what had happened, starting with the make-up tips the cheerleader had given the cosmetically challenged queen. “Ehm,” his bestie confessed, “I wouldn’t mind a bit of that advice for myself. Even though her attitude sucks, Syd always looks really good.”

“You look good to me,” Justin declared loyally. “It’s not like you ever cake the gunk on or use garish colours.”

“Gee, thanks, Jus,” his friend wryly replied. “I thought one of the benefits of being a fag hag was that you’d know all about make-up and fashion.”

“I think the fashion gene missed me.” The lad giggled when Daphne shook her head in vigorous agreement. “You could always talk with Emmett, though.”

“Erm,” the young woman cast a dubious look toward the flamboyant queen, “maybe.”

“Em has really good taste,” Justin assured her. “Better than Sydney, I reckon. He’ll make you look smokin’ hot.”

“I’ll think about it,” Daphne promised. “Now tell me more about the blonde pom-pom girl.”

The boy described how Sydney had blown hot and cold - how elated she was when she’d finally grasped the material, how she ridiculed him for helping her even though she’d showed up the day after he’d jokingly offered to tutor her, how she’d played on his sympathies because she was an ostracised ‘fatty’ when she was younger.

“Oh, please,” Daph begged, “you didn’t fall for that ‘woe is me’ garbage, did you? Even if she was telling the truth, carrying a bit of baby weight till you hit puberty doesn’t make you a fatso.”

“I don’t know. She seemed pretty distraught.” Justin observed.

“What I think is that she’s a clever minx!” his friend stated hotly. “She’s in my psych class, a subject none of the other ‘in crowd’ are enrolled in, which makes Sydney less reluctant to drop the brainless bimbo act and show her smarts. She’s very attentive whenever the instructor talks about how easily people can be manipulated. I think Syd’s using that knowledge to manoeuvre you into doing what she wants.” Daphne warned.

Scowling, Justin disputed, “I’m not that much of a pushover.” Daphne was carrying this psychoanalytic business too far, in his opinion.

“Not usually,” his friend agreed, reaching over to give his hand a quick squeeze. “But don’t you sometimes wish, deep down, that things would go back to the way they were before you were outed? To be on the soccer team? To be well liked? To be living at home with your parents and sister?”

The lad opened his mouth to issue an emphatic denial but then paused, before admitting, “Okay, you’re right. Sometimes I do wish for all those things. But even if I could, I wouldn’t go back into the closet.” Sitting up in his seat, Justin addressed the other points Daph had raised. “I bet I can take soccer for my phys ed elective in college. With you for a friend, I’ll survive the bullying at St James. As far as family, well, I’ve made a new one. And I’m going to work out how to see Molly; I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten about her, that I don’t love her.”

“Just be careful with the cheerleader,” Daphne urged. “As soon as she’s improved enough in maths - whatever she considers ‘enough’ to be - she’ll probably treat you like dirt again.”

“I told Syd I wouldn’t put up with any more bullshit,” Justin insisted. “The  minute she reverts to her previous behaviour, I’m done.”

“Does that mean you’re going to tutor her again?” Daphne asked suspiciously.

“Uh,” the boy stammered, “I may have invited her to join us next Wednesday evening.”

“What?” his friend squawked. “That’s our time to study together!”

“It’s just the once,” he defended his action. “Then it’ll be up to Syd to cram for the final. But,” Justin promised, “you and I can study together as often as you want. In fact, why don’t you plan to come home with me after the mandatory calculus session on Saturday morning? We could study some more and just hang out.”

Daph’s countenance brightened. “That sounds like fun, Jus. I can find out what new phrases Vic has taught Harley. Hmm, I wonder if _BOB_ will feature somewhere in there?”

The blond teen groaned at the notion of just what Vic might be priming Harley to say. Before Justin could reply, though, a car horn started blaring outside.

“Geesh,” Daphne complained, covering her ears, “who’s the jackass?”

“Must be a pissed-off bulldyke,” the lad joked, “whose power tools got nicked.”

While they were laughing at Justin’s sally, a heavy rapping against the window next to their booth caused them to start and glance toward the noise, only to be confronted by Mr Chanders’ angry visage.

“Shit!” Daphne cried, “It’s my dad. I completely forgot he said he’d be here to pick me up at eleven o’clock on the dot.” She hastily stuffed her books into her backpack, slung on her coat, and ran out of the diner, calling over her shoulder, “Later, Jus!”

Despite the girl’s anxiety - he knew Daph’s father would forgive her before they got home - Justin couldn’t stop laughing, envisioning the man decked out as a drag queen.

“Baby,” Em’s voice intruded on his hysteria, “would you like to share a taxi? We could swing by Deb’s before I head to Babylon.”

“That’s not necessary,” Justin declined the offer. “It’s only a few blocks. I’ll hoof it.”

“Nonsense,” Ted declared, exiting the booth behind his tall friend. “It’s too fucking cold to walk, even a short distance. I live in that direction. I’ll give you a lift.”

“Ta,” the lad shrugged. “That would be great.” It really would be nice, he mused, not to slip-slide his way home on the slippery cement, his sneakers providing little traction and the freezing wind cutting through his flimsy jacket the entire way.

The teen waved a cheerful farewell to the other boys before following Ted out of the diner, needing only a few steps to reach the man’s sedan, which was parked directly in front of the eatery. As he slid into the passenger seat, he wondered why Brian had been scowling so fiercely at him. There was no way the brunet had been waiting to give him a ride, and he shouldn’t any longer be in a snit about the fake stalker. Not his problem, Justin decided, shrugging off his ex’s moodiness.

“Wow, you’re really good at driving in these conditions,” the blond boy remarked as Ted competently manoeuvred his way toward Deb’s house, maintaining a steady speed and braking without skidding when they reached a stoplight.

“Lots of practice,” Ted informed him. “I had to get to and from Carnegie Mellon somehow during my student days.”

“I was forever pestering my folks about practicing in snowy weather, but they always fobbed me off with one excuse or another.” Justin heaved a resigned sigh.

“Maybe I could give you a lesson sometime,” the brunet suggested.

“You’re serious?” Justin asked, blinking in surprise. “You’d let me drive your Mercedes?”

“Sure,” Ted replied easily, before quirking an eyebrow and inquiring, “You know it’s a Mercedes?”

That was a strange question, the blond thought. “Well, duh,” he replied, “even without the prominent star emblem, it’s got the classic lines of a Mercedes Benz.”

The older man chuckled. “You’d be surprised who can’t tell a Benz from, say, a Chrysler.”

Must be someone he didn’t know, Justin decided. None of the gang would be _that clueless_.

“Anyway,” Ted continued, “we all have to learn sometime. I doubt you’ll have a fender bender but, even if you do, that’s what insurance is for.”

“Maybe during my winter break?” the blond inquired hopefully.

“Absolutely. Just remind me,” the older man said as he pulled up in front of Debbie’s house.

“I will!” Justin responded enthusiastically. Beaming at Ted, he reached out and gave the man a quick hug before opening the car door. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Anytime,” Ted assured the teen, smiling back at him.

The blond jogged up the walkway, unlocked the door, and beelined for the kitchen, where he made himself a midnight snack - a roast beef sarnie. After carrying the sandwich and a glass of milk over to the table, he pulled his sketch pad out of his rucksack and began drawing in between bites of roast beef.

Ten minutes later, he sat back, grinning at the rough sketch of how he imagined the meeting between Wen and and Jerkins to have gone. He’d like to turn it into a series of caricatures, he mused, and give them to her. He wouldn’t want to offend the detective, however, so he decided to sound out Carl about the idea beforehand.

Suddenly exhausted after the long day, the teen quickly rinsed the dishes before hotfooting it upstairs. He’d barely shucked his clothes when he fell on the bed, dragging the covers over himself, one bare leg hanging over the side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> màu đỏ to = Big Red
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	29. Chapter 29

A heavy knocking prompted Brian and Cynthia to look up from the kitchen table, where they were quaffing cups of coffee as they reviewed the start-up plans for the advertising agency. Before either of them could get up to answer, the heavy metal door slid to the side, a massive, tattooed figure appearing in the opening, Ted next to him.

“Brian, boyo,” the fellow boomed, “your man here” - he slung a brawny arm around the accountant’s shoulders and yanked him into the loft - “and I have just combed through every inch of yon bathhouse, together with my foreman, Norma. We got the _exact_ measurements,” he chuckled, “so if we take on the remodeling job, there’d better not be any requests for us to produce ‘another inch,’ you hear?”

Cynthia began giggling uncontrollably, causing Brian to glare at her, although that did nothing to quell her laughter. An affronted expression on his face, the stud asserted, “Since the building is a reflection of me, every _half inch_ counts, DC.”

Whilst being dragged willy-nilly over to the table, Ted still managed to quip, “Counting inches is a religious experience for Brian.”

“No worries, lad,” the bloke opined, clapping the adman on the back and almost sending him flying across the table. “Theodore has explained how you’re planning to ‘redeem’ that place. We’ll be glad to assist you in that worthy endeavour - as long as you keep your micromanaging to no more than,” he paused, “one visit a day.”

“You’d better specify a duration for those visits,” the blonde secretary gasped, “or that eagle’s beak of his will be nosing around 24/7.”

Turning to his blonde friend, Brian gave her an offended look. “My nose is perfectly nice, thank you,” he informed her. “Symmetrical and moderately sized.”

The construction worker let out a gust of laughter, gave Brian another buffet across the back, and finally released Ted from the stranglehold he had him in. “Whatever the configuration of your schnozz, it’s always looking for inches, boyo,” DC claimed.

Turning to Cynthia, he stuck out a meaty paw, adding, “You’ve got him bang to rights, lass. You’re the one as keeps him in line, aren’t you?”

“I try,” the blonde woman modestly replied, holding out a hand for a hearty shake. “I don’t think we were introduced years ago, when you bearded Brian in his office about his micromanaging habits. I’m Cynthia Moore.”

“I don’t need a keeper,” Brian huffed. Really, he wondered, how had DC come up with such a farfetched notion?

DC chuckled. “That wasn’t what I said, lad, although it’s not such a bad interpretation. Is it, Cynthia?” he asked of the adman’s secretary. “You don’t mind if I use your first name, do you, lass?”

“Not at all,” the blonde choked out between giggles. “Is it okay if I call you DC?”

“Enough with the pointless introductions,” Brian barked irritably. “We aren’t lesbians.”

The builder guffawed, his short, orangey-red curls bouncing. “You wouldn’t be saying that if Norma was around, boyo. As I recall, she outpointed you handily with her tool.”

Shit, the brunet stud thought, taking note of the avid interest on Ted and Cynthia’s faces. He really didn’t want his employees to hear how he’d come up short against the bulldyke foreman. “Dykes are only _sort of_ lesbians,” he muttered feebly.

“What kind of _tool_?” Cynthia eagerly inquired at the same time a stupefied Ted stammered, “C- came up _short_?”

“Given that pulsing vein in Brian’s forehead,” DC posited, “I’ll have to relate that tale some other time, when we’re all dead trolleyed.”

He’d do his utmost to ensure such a time never arrived, the advertising exec decided. “Speaking of tools,” Brian awkwardly redirected the conversation, “how long do you estimate it will take your crew to complete the remodel?”

“Have a seat, DC,” Cynthia urged, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she subtly motioned toward Brian’s cup, “since our _AdStud_ seems to have forgotten his manners.”

“AdStud, hmm?” The carrot-top grinned as he picked up the coffee mug and studied the cartoon image. He then boldly took a sip, before pursing his lips in distaste. “Jaysus, boyo,” he gagged, “is there anything in there but sugar?”

It was Brian’s turn to laugh, while his assistant hurried over to the kitchen counter. Filling a clean mug with coffee, she carried it back to DC. “Do you take anything in your brew?” she asked.

“A wee bit of cream if you have any,” the brawny fellow responded. “No sugar - I think three new cavities just got started.”

Brian rolled his eyes at the ridiculous assertion. He didn’t put that much sweetener in his coffee. “That cream’s worse for you than a tiny bit of sugar,” he groused.

“Tiny bit,” Ted sniggered, earning himself a scowl from the adman.

“Ah, that’s better,” DC declared moments later, accepting a refill from Cynthia after downing the first cup. He daintily wiped away a milk moustache with his napkin and added a teaspoon of half-and-half. “Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks,” he suggested, giving Brian a serious look. “Theodore mentioned that you’d like to open in conjunction with the new year. How set on that are you?”

The younger brunet felt his stomach sink. “You can’t fix up the bathhouse that fast?” he queried, unable to hide his disappointment.

“I didn’t say that.” DC rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That nervous little realtor was telling the truth; the building _is_ in good shape structurally, but” - DC smiled wryly - “there’s a lot to be done before all those _inches_ would meet your specifications.”

Brian discovered he was holding his breath as he waited for the builder’s assessment. He exhaled on a whoosh, causing the papers in front of him to flutter. Cynthia, who was sitting next to DC, appeared to be almost as tense as he was, as evidenced by the way she tightly gripped the handle of her coffee cup. Ted, however, he noted from the corner of his eye, seemed fairly relaxed. Taking that as a good sign that the construction worker hadn’t dismissed the new year deadline as unfeasible, Brian quirked an eyebrow at the redhead.

“We’re in the middle of a couple of other jobs, though,” DC observed, “so it would mean putting in extra hours and doing a good part of the work at night and on weekends. My crew’s going to need some kind of incentive to give up their free time, especially with the holidays approaching - Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa. Heck, Ramadan started two days ago, so that means Sayyid won’t be able to help much; he’ll be breaking his fast and resting up for the next day come sundown.”

Frowning, Brian tilted his hand palm up and then palm down. “Yea or nay?” he asked. “Just spit it out, DC.”

“Marvella would boot me out if I started doing that,” the builder tsk-tsked, his green eyes dancing.

The adman was ready to slam his hand down on the table in frustration but, fortunately, Cynthia stepped in before he did so. “DC,” she queried, batting her eyelashes at the man, “I can’t stand the suspense. Can you do it?”

Christ, Brian grouched to himself. The man was a fag with a drag queen partner. Surely he was too experienced to fall for such blatant feminine wiles.

“Och, lass,” the brawny man grinned at the blonde woman, “just for you, I’ll put a halt to tormenting yon lad. Aye, we can do it - for a suitable inducement, that is.”

DC stared in astonishment as the other three began laughing hysterically. “You know,” Cynthia confided once she was able to stop snickering, “an ‘inducement’ around here is a box of expensive chocolates.”

Whooping in amusement, the builder admitted, “I won’t say no to choccies, but I think you’d better pad that box with some green, boyo.”

For the next half hour, the four of them pored over the standard contract DC had provided, amending it as they discussed all the changes that would need to be made to the bathhouse. Following that, the adman negotiated salaries and a bonus with the builder, with everyone sitting back in their chairs and smiling in satisfaction at the end.

“My crew will be happy,” DC decreed, “and there will be no grumbling from the union since you’re treating everyone fairly.”

“So,” Ted summed up what they’d agreed to, “a base fee for the project; time and a half for your crew during the week, up to midnight; double pay on Sunday and any work performed after midnight but before six in the morning. A fifteen percent bonus if the remodel is completed by Thursday, December 21st.”

“That’s the ticket,” DC verified. “We can start work as soon as you have title to the property. And the winter solstice will be the perfect day to finish up. Hanukkah begins the next day and will neatly coincide with the week off I like to grant my lads and lasses after they’ve laboured hard all year.”

“Maybe I should jump ship,” Cyn joked. “I won’t be getting a day off, much less a week, for who knows how long.”

“You’d look bonny in a hardhat,” DC jested in return. “But I fear you’d be too much of a distraction for my crew.”

The blonde tossed her head saucily and grinned impishly. “I’ll make sure to stop by the bathhouse occasionally so the men can get an eyeful. I wouldn’t be averse to a tussle between the sheets.”

“Not unless you want to pay their wages when you distract them,” Brian teased as he escorted DC toward the door.

“Ah, well,” the adman heard his friend shrug it off, “it’s not the right time of year to traipse around in my Louboutins.”

“I’ll be putting in a bid tomorrow,” Brian announced, sticking out his hand for the builder to shake, “and hope to hear by Tuesday, at the latest, whether it’s been accepted. In the meantime, we’ll finish drafting a contract between my agency and your firm.” He made a mental note to run it by Melanie, since he hoped work on the bathhouse would commence in advance of his meeting with the bulldyke attorney.

“Just give me a jingle,” DC said. “We’ll be ready.” With a vigorous shake of Brian’s hand, he turned and trotted down the stairs.

“Fuck,” the adman groaned, staggering back toward the table as he massaged his hand.

Chuckling, Ted offered, “I’ll close the door, Bri. I think I’ve finally recovered from the crippling strength of that bloke’s grip.”

“I should’ve remembered DC’s crushing handshake.” Brian groaned some more.

“Wimp,” Cynthia joshed as she began to rub her boss’ hand. “He didn’t hurt me at all.”

“He took it easy on you,” Ted accused. “Mind you, his foreman, Norma, has an even fiercer handclasp.”

“Christ, don’t remind me,” the younger man groaned again, his hand tingling as feeling finally began to return. “I’ll have to make sure the bulldyke isn’t there before I visit the site.”

“So, what happened between you and Norma?” the blonde asked with an eager inquisitiveness.

Brian feigned not to hear her, instead directing, “Fax the contract for the remodel to Melanie, with a note from me asking her to look it over, would you?” There was no way he’d divulge the details of that pissing contest unless, as DC had intimated, he was nine sheets to the wind.

“Right now?” Cyn smirked, pretending to drop his hand.

“I’ve got it,” Ted interjected from over by the landline, which doubled as a fax machine. “You’d better keep massaging,” he then quipped. “Unlike a certain blond teenager, I doubt Brian’s ambidextrous. He’ll need his right hand to, uh, take care of things.”

“Do you mean to rub one-” the woman riposted, before Brian cut her off.

“I want you to arrange for a reputable cleaning crew to go through the bathhouse from top to bottom” - he ignored Ted’s snicker - “as soon as DC’s crew is done. Set it up for the twenty-second of December.”

“Okay,” Cynthia agreed, jotting notes in her electronic calendar. “Once we’ve decided on the furniture and equipment, I’ll arrange for it to be delivered and installed on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, insofar as possible.”

The CFO returned to the table. “The fax went through successfully,” he reported, “and I left a message about the contract on Mel’s direct line.”

“Good,” Brian acknowledged. “Now we need to start aggressively pursuing clients, especially those accounts I garnered for Ryder and whose contracts will be expiring in the next six months. We can sound out the ones whose contracts will expire after that, but they aren’t as urgent. We also want to drum up new clients.”

“Provided the lowballed bid for the bathhouse is accepted,” Ted observed, “and if we can land a few big accounts along with some smaller ones, you’ll be able to more quickly amortise your mortgage, Bri.”

“Ideally,” the ad exec mused, “I’d already have an account or two on the books before I approach PNC Bank. Then I’d be able to establish more favourable terms for the loan.”

“According to Bethany,” Cynthia related, “that Iams account might be ripe for the plucking. She’s pretty sure they had a get-out clause built in, that if they weren’t happy with any of the ads presented to them within a ninety-day period, they were no longer bound by their contract.”

Brow furrowing, Brian queried sharply, “Didn’t Marty immediately assign that account to one of the other senior advertising execs? A couple of them are fairly capable, although nowhere near as good as I am.”

“Apparently, it’s still sitting on your old desk, boss.” Cynthia chuckled. “And Mr Prescott is understandably livid that no one has been in touch with him. It sounds like he might walk, even if he does have to pay a fee for terminating the contract.”

“Christ,” the adman breathed out. “I need a reason to contact Prescott.”

“Ehm,” the blonde secretary coughed, “Bethany may have dropped one of your old business cards - on which she’d printed and underscored your mobile number - on the floor when Mr Prescott visited Ryder’s a couple days ago. When the Iams guy picked it up and tried to hand it to her, she told him he could toss it. Prescott glanced at it quickly as he went to drop it into the wastebasket and then - probably realising it had your contact number - pocketed it rather than binning it.”

“All that for a box of Godiva chocolates?” Theodore quipped. “That girl sounds like she’s worth her weight in the sweet stuff.”

“Fuck, yes,” Brian concurred. “I take it she’s interested in working for me. When can she start?”

“Bethany thinks it might be more beneficial for her to stay at Ryder a little longer,” Cynthia disclosed, “to try and let more of your former clients know you’ve gone into business for yourself.”

“Tell her to hand in her notice now,” Brian ordered. “I don’t want her to expose herself to a lawsuit for unethical behaviour.”

“Yeah,” Ted immediately seconded the younger man’s advice. “We don’t want to get a reputation for gaining clients through underhanded means.”

Cynthia exhaled a relieved sigh. “She knows she’s skating on thin ice with this cloak and dagger stuff. Now that the excitement has worn off a little, I think Bethany’s ready to hand in her resignation. I’ll update you after I talk to her tonight.”

“By the way,” Ted divulged, “I’m a free agent. Wertshafter accepted my resignation yesterday afternoon. He was curious about what I’ll be doing, so I explained that I’m in on the ground floor, helping set up a new, innovative advertising agency.”

“Will you have to work during your notice period?” Cynthia questioned.

Ted shook his head in the negative. “Old Man Wertshafter was actually really cool about the whole thing,” the accountant expounded. “He doesn’t see any need for me to hang around, so the firm will pay me out for my accumulated vacation leave. I was stunned when he came out from behind his desk and patted me on the back, saying how sorry he is to lose a ‘valued employee’ like me.”

The two men exchanged grins, Brian certain they were both thinking of Theodore’s ‘bladder infection.’ “Oh, what a relief it is,” he murmured, shamelessly adapting the Alka-Seltzer commercial to fit the occasion.

“Indeed.” Ted winked at his friend. “Your idea of inviting Wertshafter to the gala was a good one, Bri. I think it eased the sting of my somewhat abrupt resignation. The old man was made up to be the first to receive an unofficial invitation. He even offered to put together suggestions for others we should invite.”

Right as Brian opened his mouth to utter a ‘thank fuck’ that Wertshafter had never caught Theodore watching porn at work, his mobile began buzzing, jittering a little on the glass table. He glanced at the number and when he didn’t recognise it, he ignored the call, intending for it to roll over to voicemail.

“Bri,” Ted half shouted, excitement in his voice as he also looked at the display. “That’s Wertshafter’s private number. While I was telling him what a brilliant adman you are, he started musing out loud about how his firm should do more to attract-”

The advertising exec stopped listening at that point, instead pressing the green phone symbol to accept the call and greeting in a smooth baritone, “Brian Kinney.”

“Mr Kinney,” the business owner’s voice boomed down the phone line, “this is Hildebert Wertshafter.”

Christ, Brian thought, wincing. He wouldn’t want to be saddled with that moniker - it was just as bad as the one bestowed on ‘A Boy Named Sue.’ “Yes?” he prompted, not daring to say more lest he show his horror at the man’s name.

He was surprised when Wertshafter emitted a convivial chuckle. “You’re stunned by the magnificence of my name, aren’t you?” he accurately conjectured.

“Hmm,” Brian murmured, glaring at his CFO. Why the fuck hadn’t Ted prepared him for that ‘magnificent name’? he wondered.

Hildebert laughed heartily. “Haven’t met anyone yet who didn’t share that reaction,” he revealed. “Because of some distant ancestor, who was supposedly an accomplished warrior, males in my family periodically get lumbered with that monstrosity.”

“Hmm,” the adman reiterated noncommittally, still cautious about agreeing with the other man and possibly offending him.

“I usually shorten it to Bert,” Wertshafter admitted, amusement lacing his voice, “after I gauge people’s reactions, that is.”

This time Brian laughed along with the owner of the accounting firm. The glare he was directing at Ted softened to a look of puzzlement. Why hadn’t his friend mentioned that Wertshafter had quite the sense of humour, much like Theodore’s own dry wit, in fact? While he was pondering that condundrum, he asked, “What can I do for you, Mr Wertshafter?”

“Bert, please,” the man responded.

“Brian,” the advertising exec said in turn.

“Theodore Schmidt sang your praises after he handed in his resignation,” Bert explained, “and that got me to thinking that my firm could do with an advertising campaign. We’ve never done much before - mainly relied on an oversized entry in the Yellow Pages, a couple of newspaper announcements as tax season neared, and word of mouth.”

Flabbergasted, the adman removed the phone from his ear and stared at it for a long moment. No matter how good Wertshafter’s firm was at all types of accountancy, he couldn’t fathom how they’d stayed in business, never mind thrived. Holding the phone to his ear again, he inquired, “What did you have in mind? We could prepare a multi-pronged approach - newspaper, magazine, billboard and smaller posters, online, radio, and local TV. We’d have to move quickly, though, with tax season right around the corner.”

“Well,” Bert hedged, “I’m not sure we can handle the cost of that much advertising.”

Or absorb the influx of new customers, Brian thought, that was bound to result from one of his marketing plans. He refrained from saying that, of course, madly scribbling a note for Theodore - How many new clients does Wertshafter want right away? - and then diplomatically suggesting, “Why don’t Ted and I work up a cost analysis for you as well as creating some boards for various print advertisements? We could target increasing your client base by a small number - say two hundred to two hundred and fifty new customers for the 2000-2001 tax year,” Brian said as he read his CFO’s answer from the scrap of paper, “and then proceed with an all-out print, online, radio, and TV blitz next year. That would give you time to prepare for a true inundation of clients.”

“Ted said you’re an advertising genius,” Wertshafter replied, skepticism evident in his tone, “but do you really believe you can deliver that many new clients for the upcoming season?”

“I’m certain I can,” Brian stated confidently. “Even with utilising print media only, the problem is going to be limiting your firm’s exposure so that you don’t end up with twice that many clients before the tax season is over. That’s not a problem I’m used to addressing,” the adman drily finished.

“Holy sh- uh, cow,” Wertshafter harrumphed. Brian could almost hear the wheels turning in Bert’s head, as the man contemplated the potential revenue. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “we could handle upwards of three hundred new accounts, provided some of the customers don’t need more than either the short IRS form or the simple one.”

“Huh,” the advertising exec ruminated, chuckling wryly, “I can barely remember when I was eligible to file the 1040A, much less the 1040EZ.”

“Me neither,” Wertshafter agreed, “but it’s a problem I’m glad to have.”

Hmming in agreement with that sentiment, Brian scanned his calendar for December on his laptop screen. “We should target mid to late December for the first round of ads,” he informed his new client. “Since Ted has all the deets on your firm, my staff and I can draft the adverts in the next week and a half. We’ll want your approval, however, before we finalise them. Will you be available on the morning of December twelfth to review everything?”

“How about ten o’clock?” Bert proposed. “A couple of the junior partners and I will look over what you’ve come up with.”

After confirming the time, the adman was about to ring off when Wertshafter announced, “You’re lucky to have acquired an employee of Theodore Schmidt’s calibre, Brian. He’s conscientious, reliable, and productive. I was sorry to see him go - I’d been grooming him for a leadership position for years - but I wasn’t about to hold him back from the opportunity to help build an agency from the ground up. If for some reason things don’t work out, however, I made sure Theodore knows he will always have a place at Wertshafter.”

What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Brian wondered. He was hardly going to gush about Ted’s attributes, especially while the man was sitting right next to him. “Ehm, yes, a real asset,” he managed to spit out. His friend, drat the fellow, arched a knowing eyebrow when he mumbled those last few words before saying goodbye to Wershafter.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” the accountant jested the moment he hung up.

“I can still fire you, Theodore,” the younger man threatened.

“Aw,” Cynthia cooed, “you wouldn’t want to fire an asset.”

“Christ,” Brian complained, standing up and stomping over to the coffee maker, “I’ll fire his ass and yours if you don’t stop acting like lezzies.” Realising there were only a few drops left in the carafe, he bellowed, “Cynthia!” snickering when the blonde woman almost fell off her chair.

“Jesus, Brian,” Cynthia griped as she righted herself. “I’m all of ten feet from you. Lower the volume, would’ya?”

“Coffee,” Brian grunted, pointing at the empty machine.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the secretary declared exasperatedly, “I forgot to give you the ‘dummies tour for operating a Braun coffee maker’ before I left yesterday. You’re going to learn right now,” she insisted, iron in her voice.

“Couldn’t you just make it?” Brian whined, appalled to hear his voice rise in pitch, but nevertheless having no desire to master the ‘simple’ machine. Since the disaster with his newfangled DeLonghi, he preferred to drink the product rather than tinker with making it.

When Cynthia tilted her head so she could look past him at the door, the brunet stud craned his head around, before barking, “What? No one’s there.”

“Could’ve sworn I heard that puny friend of yours,” his assistant replied, shaking her head in bewilderment. “You know, the one whose voice sounds like a weird cross between a high-powered drill and a donkey braying.”

“Har de har,” Brian reproved his assistant, shooting her an insulted look. “I do not sound like Mikey. Never have, never will.”

“Uh-huh,” the blonde responded doubtingly as she smirked at her boss. “What do you think?” she called out to Ted, who had stayed out of the fracas up till now.

“Uh, I’m Switzerland,” Ted fended off his colleague’s query. “Completely neutral.”

“Get your ‘ass-et’ over here,” Brian commanded. “If I have to torture myself with this German contraption, so do you. In fact,” he added after the older man had joined them, “you can be Cyn’s backup for making the first pot in the morning.

“Sure,” Ted answered agreeably. Gently nudging the woman to one side, he lectured, “You’re going to want a full pot, so pour water into the tank until it reaches the maximum mark” - he pressed an index finger against the horizontal line with ‘max’ written above it in white script. "Then you measure the coffee into the filter” - he counted out the appropriate number of rounded scoops - “and then comes the tough part,” he joked. “You have to flip the switch at the base of the machine to _on_.”

“Good job.” Brian drolled from his chair at the dining table, to which he’d returned without Theodore noticing, the older man overly intent on demonstrating his coffee-making technique. “Go ahead and flip that switch, and then you can repeat the procedure in the morning.”

Ted shrugged good-naturedly. “I don’t mind playing barista, but you’re gonna be out of luck, Bri, once the bathhouse has been converted to offices and we’re no longer meeting here.”

That could pose a problem, Brian reflected. His countenance brightened, however, when a partial solution popped into his head - his blond fuck buddy could take care of things the nights he stayed over. Heck, it was the teenager who’d made the coffee in the burgled Krups coffee machine at least ninety-five percent of the time anyway.

Apparently Cynthia was also thinking about the blond brat because she inquired, “What did Justin say when you asked him about freelancing for you?”

“I didn’t have a chance to ask him; the diner was like Grand Central Terminal yesterday. And then, right at the opportune moment I’d finagled to talk with the kid,” Brian grouched, “some doofus offered him a ride home.”

It was with a bit of malicious satisfaction that the younger man noticed Ted clamping his mouth shut. He knew he wasn’t being fair - Emmett would have shared a taxi with Justin if Theodore hadn’t given the teen a lift - but he’d been pissed at being left behind at the diner by all his friends, with no chance at all to approach the boy. Frustrated and horny, he’d briefly considered picking a trick up at Babylon, but then - having set his sights on the teenager, and still leery of encountering his assaulter - he drove home instead. He’d spent a restless night, jerking off over and over, but never feeling satisfied.

His assistant’s voice intruded on his brooding. “You’ll ask him today then?” she encouraged her boss. “It really can’t wait, Brian, especially now that we have Wertshafter for our first client” - she paused to grin at Ted - “with Iams likely to follow.”

“I’ll ask him,” the adman promised, “even if the majorettes from the North Allegheny High School marching band come trooping in, twirling those asinine batons. The lad won’t be at the diner for a couple of hours, however, so in the interim, let’s brainstorm about other potential clients.”

 

Later that afternoon, Justin breezed into the diner, snowflakes melting on his jacket in the warm air. “Geesh, that feels good,” he exclaimed, keeping his coat on as he waited for his shivers to subside. “It’s monkeys out there, even though it’s only snowing lightly.”

“Have a cuppa,” Debbie suggested, pushing a mug of tea across the counter. “That’ll warm up your insides.”

“Shit! That’s hot,” the teenager cursed after taking an incautious swallow.

The redhead laughed at him. “The rising steam should have clued you in, Sunshine,” she chided.

“Um, yeah,” Justin mumbled in embarrassment. “I guess I thought I could chug it down before changing out of my uniform and starting my shift.”

“Take your time, Kiddo,” Deb recommended, her eyes still twinkling with laughter. “It’s not gone four o’clock yet; plus, it’s pretty quiet at the moment.”

The blond lad sipped more carefully this time, before finally shucking his jacket. As he dumped his backpack and the garment on the stool next to him, he noticed Fahad setting a couple plates on the ledge of the kitchen window. “Are those crab cakes?” he called out, craning his neck to see better.

“Yep, they’re selling like hotcakes,” the chef confirmed, chuckling at his own wit.

Justin rolled his eyes fondly at the man’s sense of humour. “I like beefcakes better personally,” he commented, figuring he might just as well join in with the dad jokes.

Debbie cackled, “I’ll take a beefcake _or_ a hotcake.”

“Detective sized?” the blond slyly inquired. “Horvath is kind of beefy if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows, she queried, “That sort of thing?”

Justin shrugged. “Straight guys.”

“Well, in that case,” the redhead paused briefly, “I am definitely into that sort of thing!”

“Will either one of you take care of these orders?” Fahad interrupted their raillery. “Or are you going to keep gushing over those other ‘hot cakes’?”

“I’ve got it,” Debbie assured Justin. “You go change out of your uniform, Sunshine.”

“Leave it on!” someone at a table full of rowdy queens cried out. “I like a schoolboy cake.”

Flushing as he recalled how his ex lover liked exactly that same kind of cake, the teenager ignored the comment, rushing to his cubby in the break room instead to change.

When he returned, it was to find Debbie’s good humour had fled, the woman frowning at the countertop as she tapped a red fingernail against it. He cast a searching look at his surrogate mother, wondering what had happened. “Something wrong?” he asked her softly, keeping his voice down as not to get overheard.

“I was just thinking how much Vic would like the crab cakes,” Deb commented. “They’re a favourite of his. He’s not been very peckish the last couple of days, but that seafood would surely tempt his appetite.”

“Oh, is he okay?” Justin worried.

The redhead gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course, Honey. His appetite just sometimes comes and goes, that’s all.”

The teenager smiled at her in relief. “Why don’t you take some of the crab cakes home for him tonight? He’ll dig right in, I bet.”

“I’ll be sure to try that, Sunshine,” she told him. “Now let’s stop wallowing and start working - this joint won’t run itself.”

As the afternoon wore on, the diner got busier and busier. Most of the gang hadn’t arrived yet, Justin observed, although Michael and Ted had just walked in, with the accountant cozied up next to a hunky guy who looked vaguely familiar to the teen.

“Hey, Justin,” Ted greeted him with a smile, before turning to his companions. “You two grab a seat, I have to freshen up,” he told them. “The cold always makes me want to go.”

The hot brunet grinned. “Too much information, Ted,” he remarked teasingly.

“Yeah,” Michael chimed in dismissively. “Who cares about your bladder problems?”

The short man then stared at Ted in perplexity when his friend simply laughed before heading toward the restroom, taking his problematic bladder with him.

Michael huffed quietly, sliding into an empty booth. “My bladder is completely healthy,” he informed his companion, a little pride bleeding into his voice.

It looked to Justin as if the hunky bloke barely suppressed an eye-roll at that strange conversational gambit. “Uh, can I get you guys something to drink?” he asked.

Michael perked up. “Um, yeah, we’d like a bottle of ‘Mutted Chandon,’” he pronounced carefully, looking at the man sitting opposite him to gauge his reaction. “And two glasses,” he added.

Before Justin could remind Michael that they didn’t serve any alcohol at the diner, let alone something as expensive as Moët et Chandon, the hunk interceded. “Um, I think I’ll just have a glass of water, actually,” he told the blond, before adding with a smile, “And bring whatever’s Ted’s usual; I hear he’s a regular.”

Justin returned the smile with a sunshiny grin of his own. “That’ll be a Dr Pepper then.” Turning to Mikey, he confirmed, “And a Coke for you, I assume?”

Michael pouted for a moment. “I really wanted some of that mutted stuff,” he grumbled, “but I guess a Coke will do.”

“Right,” Justin concluded, sticking his pencil behind his ear. “I’ll wait with the food orders till Ted’s back with you, shall I?”

“Ta, that would be great,” the muscular bloke replied, directing another friendly smile at the teenager. “I already know what I want, however, providing you haven’t run out of the crab cakes. Ted was raving about them on the way over here.”

“I’ll put one away for you,” Justin promised flirtatiously.

The stranger - Ted’s boyfriend? the teen speculated - winked at him in return.

“Would’ya go get our drinks already?” Michael griped, obviously not enjoying the flirtatious byplay. Leaning across the table to bring himself closer to Ted’s friend, he announced, “You can’t go wrong with the crab cakes. I’m the one who convinced everyone to try them.”

Swallowing down the words that wanted to escape his lips at the blatant lie, Justin shook his head. He was really curious what Michael was aiming at - a little harmless flirtation was one thing, but this appeared to be something more. He must be wrong, though, he thought as he poured the drinks for the three men; after all, Michael was totally wrapped up in Dr Dave.

 

Brian sauntered into the diner, his eyes immediately zeroing in on Justin, who was carrying a tray of drinks. The brunet stud was certain that he’d shortly accomplish his goals of hiring a freelance artist and - much more importantly - acquiring a fuck buddy. His focus shifted away from the blond, however, when he realised that Ben, in addition to Michael, was sitting in the booth that was Justin’s current destination. Although he didn’t see Theodore, he guessed his friend couldn’t be far away, and that he’d decided to bite the bullet and finally introduce his boyfriend to the gang.

What in the heck was Mikey up to? he wondered, puzzled that the short brunet was leaning precariously over the table as he spoke to Ben, going so far as to place one hand on the professor’s arm. Brian abruptly stopped dead, his mouth dropping open in shock, when he overheard Michael coyly invite, “If you wanna ditch boring Ted after we eat our crab cakes, I’m available to show you a good time, Big Boy.”

Brian was vaguely aware of Justin standing beside him, equally shocked by Michael’s behaviour. The two men watched in stupefied silence as Ben merely stared at Michael for a long moment, obviously taken aback by the man’s proposal. Then, angry red splotches appeared on the professor’s cheeks as he prised Michael’s hand off his arm and dropped it onto the table, sternly declaring, “You may be available, but _I am not_. I suggest you-”

What Ben would have advised went unsaid as Michael interrupted, “A guy like you - I can understand why Ted’s interested in you. But if you let him down gently, like I did when I discovered he had a crush on me, he won’t cause any problems.”

Zen Ben - as Brian had privately dubbed the professor - was looking decidedly less zen by the moment, the adman mused. Doing his best to shake off the consternation engendered by Michael, he shared an incredulous, slightly panicked look with Justin before he stepped forward. Stretching out a hand, he jovially addressed Ted’s beau, “Professor, it’s good to see you again.”

“Brian,” Ben acknowledged, appearing grateful for the timely intervention as he clasped the other man’s hand.

“You’re a professor?” Michael gasped, looking totally nonplussed.

Forcing himself to scoot into the booth next to his oldest friend, so Ted could eventually slide in next to his paramour, Brian quirked an eyebrow and inquired sardonically, “Haven’t you been introduced? Tsk, tsk. It sounded like you were crushing on the professor, Mikey. I’m sure the good doctor will be hurt to hear he’s been replaced as the object of your affections.”

“Haha, hahaha,” Michael fake-laughed, clearly alarmed by Brian’s sudden appearance. “I just, you know,” he fumbled for an excuse, “wanted to be sure a hunkalicious guy like the, uh, professor, is genuinely interested in plain old Ted. So I, hahaha, pretended to make a play for him just to be sure he won’t hurt my good friend. I wasn’t _serious_ , of course.” Peering around Brian, he belatedly noticed Justin, who was still frozen in place, drink tray in hand. Emitting another unconvincing chuckle, he claimed, “Even Justin knows I was just kidding around, right?”

Yeah, _right_ , Brian thought to himself. As if any of them bought that load of bullshit.

Ted returned from the loo at exactly that moment, putting an end to the conversation. “Is everything okay?” he asked. “You all look really weird.”

“Uh,” Michael stuttered, “we were just wondering what had happened to you. I thought maybe you’d fallen into the toilet, hahaha. You really should see a bladder doctor, Ted, if you have to pee all the time.”

An affronted expression on his face, the older man said, “I don’t need to visit a _urologist_ , Michael.”

“Yeah,” Justin concurred, finally approaching the table and setting the tray down, “it’s perfectly normal to urinate more often in cold weather.” Then he paused, tilting his head in consideration. “Why are we even talking about this, for god’s sake?”

Brian nodded quickly in agreement. “Yeah, let’s order,” he suggested. “That’s what Justin’s here for anyroad.” He softened his words with a small smile, though, hoping the blond would just go along with it and not throw a hissy fit.

“Sure,” the blond teenager stated easily, effortlessly picking up on Brian’s cue. He took the pencil from behind his ear and flipped open his pad. “What would you guys like?”

“I’ll have the crab cakes,” Ben said with a friendly smile at the teen. “Like I said earlier, I’ve had a hankering for crab ever since Ted first mentioned them.”

Brian joined in with his order, “I’ll have one too, and bring me some of that green salad as a side.”

Justin nodded in confirmation, jotting down the order and adding a note to bring his ex a glass of guava juice as well. And maybe a couple of chips, since they had been a success the day before.

“Me three for the crab cakes,” Ted quipped. “I’ll pass on the limp lettuce, though.”

Justin was about to ask whether Ted wanted a side of fries, or maybe onion rings, when a panting voice called out, “Wait for me, boys! I just escaped from Torso after waiting on the most demanding square-butt for hours, I swear. Absolutely nothing would properly fit that horrid arse of his.”

The blond snorted, trying to hold back a loud, unprofessional laugh. “I’m sorry to hear that, Em,” he told his flamboyant friend. “What can I get you to make you feel better and forget all about that unshapely derriere?”

“Oh, la,” the queen flapped a hand at Justin. “An order of crab cakes will help me-” He suddenly broke off, gazing intently at Ben. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” the professor replied, although the twinkle in his eyes belied his words.

Emmett continued to stare at Ben, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Em?” Justin finally prompted, when several seconds had elapsed. “Your order?”

“Hush, Baby,” the nelly queen pled. “I’ve almost got it.”

“I’ll order while you think about it,” Michael impatiently inserted. “Otherwise, we’ll be here all night.”

“Go ahead,” Emmett muttered, disregarding his friend’s rudeness. “Though it’s not like Baby doesn’t already know what you want - you always order the same.”

“Crab cakes?” Ben guessed, raising one eyebrow at the squirrelly man.

“Huh?” Em asked, jolted out of his introspection. “No, it’s a cheeseburger that he always gets.”

“Oh, I must’ve misunderstood when he said that he turned all of you on to-”

“That’s it!” the tall queen suddenly yelled, waving a hand at Ben. “You’re the fellow who was ogling Teddy at the garage sale.”

Justin brightened. “Oh, right!” he joined in, finally realising why the fit man seemed so familiar. “You were watching us perform _In the Gay-rage_.”

“Is that how you met?” Emmett inquired. “You waylaid Teddy later that night?”

“Um, not quite,” Ted interjected. “Ben and I actually met in a bookstore a while ago.”

“I had to make quite an effort to persuade Theodore to go out on a first date with me,” the professor elucidated, “but since then, we’ve talked almost every day.”

Brian gagged theatrically, rolling his eyes at Justin. “Met in a bookstore,” he muttered. “I swear that’s the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard; I wouldn’t even dare put it into an ad.”

Emmett snorted, leaning closer to the ad executive. “Not everyone can meet the love of their life underneath a lamp post.”

Ben smiled curiously. “Lamp post?” he questioned. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone. In fact, I got the impression that you-”

“Am happily single,” Brian interrupted, ignoring the folderol about the ‘love of his life.’ He winced, though, when he saw a stony expression steal over Justin’s face; his campaign to seduce the lad into an overnight fuck was off to a poor start. Damn the chatty queen - who didn’t look at all repentant - for opening his big mouth.

“So, Em, your order?” the teenager reminded the queen.

“Oh! The crab cakes, of course,” Emmett replied.

“All right, I’ll bring you the food once it’s done,” Justin told the gang, turning on his heel to leave them to their conversation.

Michael called after him, “Wait! I haven’t ordered yet!”

Obviously suppressing an eye-roll, the blond glanced at the short brunet. “A cheeseburger with fries and a Coke?” he guessed.

“Um,” Mikey paused. “No! I want onion rings this time!” he claimed victoriously.

“How adventurous of you,” Ted inserted drily.

“Right?” Brian deadpanned, exchanging a sarcastic look with his friend. “I mean, going from one deep fried vegetable to a… _different_ deep fried vegetable.”

Michael pouted - a full-out, deep pout - his arms folded across his chest petulantly. “You don’t always have to make fun of me, Brian. I know it’s just friendly teasing and that you love me, but sometimes it’s a little mean,” he complained.

Typical Mikey, Brian thought to himself. He’d already forgotten about his egregious behaviour with Ben, and was now playing the victim card - not that he was entirely wrong about Brian picking on him, but Michael made that so _easy_.

When Brian didn’t bother to address Michael’s complaint, Emmett jumped in, changing the subject. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Ben have been dating, Teddy? he asked in a small, rather hurt voice. “I thought I was your dearest friend.”

“Christ,” Brian swore, “let’s not have a muncher meltdown, Honeycutt.”

“Just because you lack the finer sensibilities, _Bri_ ,” the queen sniffed, “that doesn’t give you cause to ridicule my feelings.”

“I was planning to tell you, Em,” Ted intervened, “but I really doubted this thing with Ben would go anywhere.”

Ben put his arm around his boyfriend in support.

Ted shrugged, smiling at the professor. “I mean, look at him - can you blame me?”

Brian, who’d had enough of the ridiculous _dating_ palaver, nudged Emmett with his hip. “Budge over,” he muttered when the man glared at him. Fortunately, the queen complied without further fuss, and the brunet stud was soon free of the booth.

As Justin saw his ex lover heading toward the WC, he hissed, “Brian!” and motioned for the man to join him in the break room. He quickly glanced at Kiki, the tranny’s nod confirming that she would handle the customers for a bit.

“What?” the brunet questioned suspiciously once they were alone. “You’re not pissed about that comment, are you?”

Justin threw him his best confused look. “What comment?”

“Never mind,” Brian waved him off. “What did you want?”

Beginning to get a bit irritated with the brunet’s deliberate obtuseness, Justin retorted, “The situation with Ben and Michael, of course. What should we do about it?”

“Nothing,” Brian curtly replied.

Justin gave his former lover an incredulous stare. “You can’t be serious. Michael came on to Ted’s boyfriend!” he accused. “I don’t think even you’d be so callous as to do that.”

Brian shrugged. “It’s between Mikey and Ben. There’s no call for us to interfere.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t you want to know if you were in Ted’s place?” Justin insisted.

With a roll of his eyes, Brian said, “Why discuss a hypothetical impossibility?”

“Just pretend,” the teen urged. “I know you care about Ted, so you can do that much."

Heaving a heavy sigh, Brian demurred, “I can’t play at being Ted. He’d analyse the problem to death for-fucking-ever before making up his mind.”

“Fine,” Justin huffed. “I’ll be Ted. After carefully thinking about it, I’ve decided I’d want to know if someone I consider a friend were so graceless as to hit on my boyfriend.”

“I’m me, right?” the brunet sardonically inquired. When the teenager nodded, he repeated, “I don’t do a damned thing, Justin. It would only make matters awkward between me and Ted.”

The blond scowled at his former lover. “That’s what a friend does, Brian, no matter how uncomfortable it makes them. It’s up to you to warn Ted.”

“You’re his friend too,” the older man complained. “Why don’t you tell him if you’re bothered so much?”

“You’ve known Ted a lot longer than I have,” Justin countered, “and it’s obvious to me that Ted respects your opinion.”

“Bullshit,” Brian denied, shaking his head. “Besides, your whole scenario is flawed,” he told Justin.

“Oh, yeah?” the blond reproved skeptically. “How so?”

The taller man leaned closer to his former lover, getting in his face. “Because you don’t actually know what Theodore would prefer in a situation like this,” he sneered. “You just based your theory on your own immature feelings, but maybe Ted would rather live in a happy oblivion.”

Justin pressed his lips tightly together, refusing to get rebuffed so easily. “If you think sniping at me is gonna make me drop this, you don’t know me very well.”

The brunet shrugged again. “Regardless of how much you yap at me, you’re not going to convince me to intervene, not when I strongly doubt it’s what Ted would want.”

“How would you know, though?” Justin asked, refusing to back down. “I bet the two of you never talked about anything like this.” He was surprised when Brian didn’t immediately issue a snarky retort, instead appearing unusually thoughtful, and maybe a little abashed.

“Look,” he continued less stridently, “what if, rather than talking to Ted, you persuade Michael to come clean?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s bound to be so much more effective,” the older man drolled. “Mikey’s as stubborn as a mule, and he’ll have already forgotten about his ‘misbehaviour.’ The only result would be that he’d throw a temper tantrum and then sulk for weeks.”

“Then,” Justin contended, “you’ll just have to go with the lesser evil and talk to Ted.”

Christ, Brian mused, half in admiration and half in frustration, the kid never gave up. “Okay,” he relented, shrugging in resignation, “I’ll figure out a way to sound Theodore out on the subject. But,” he cautioned, “if it’s clear that Ted would rather not know, I’m going to abide by that.”

Justin beamed at the brunet, happy to have wrung that concession out of the stubborn man. “Thanks, Bri.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian waved off his thanks. “Enough with the mushy crap. Let’s talk about something truly important.”

The teenager lifted his brows in inquiry. “Like what?”

“You can draw reasonably well,” the adman commented, smirking slightly, “and I’m in need of an artist for my new agency. So, how would you like to freelance for me?”

“Um,” Justin wished he could step outside for a cigarette and mull over the surprising offer but settled for biting at his thumbnail instead, “I’m not sure I can fit that in with everything else I’m doing. How much time would that involve each week?"

“You’ll have plenty of time,” Brian asserted, “since you’ll be able to cancel the go-go dancing gig.”

Arrogant, high-handed bastard, the teen fumed to himself. “How do you figure that?” he snapped.

In an overly patient voice, Brian elaborated, “You’ll make far more money as an artist, and the work won’t be nearly so physically taxing.”

“You _do not_ get to decide for me,” Justin growled through gritted teeth. The brunet had peeved him off so badly that he then bragged, “I can do it all - study, dance, work at the diner, _and_ help you out. I don’t need to give up anything.” To himself, the teenager conceded that he was already having trouble coping - there were only twenty-four hours in a day, and he was constantly short on sleep. What with tutoring Daph and now Sydney, his little free time had almost completely vanished, leaving him scrabbling for a smidgen of time in which to develop his relationship with Carl.

“Fuck,” Brian cursed. “Have it your way, but don’t come whining to me when you discover you can’t handle it all and end up doing something stupid, like relying on drugs for a pick-me up.”

Justin huffed, offended. “I wouldn’t do that,” he denied. “I’m not stupid.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “I know you’re not,” he admitted. “But even clever people make stupid decisions when desperate.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” Justin snarked, folding his arms.

“I’m not-”

“Whatever,” the blond interrupted. “Was that all you wanted?”

“Christ, but you’re a stubborn little twat,” Brian claimed, a hint of fond exasperation in his tone. “It’s enough for now that you’ve agreed to freelance for me. We’ll discuss the specifics in a few days.”

Justin narrowed his eyes at the older man. Had he actually agreed to work for Brian? He supposed the adman might’ve taken his insistence that he could do everything as a form of consent. “You manipulated me,” he complained half-heartedly.

Brian smirked at him but didn’t say anything, confirming the teenager’s suspicion.

“Not fair,” Justin mumbled. “You’re good.”

“Practice makes perfect,” the adman opined sententiously as he left the break room and rejoined his friends, entirely forgetting that he’d intended to wash his hands before eating. Oh well, it wasn’t like he was dirty or anything.

Brian kept an eye on the blond teen as he consumed his meal and chatted with his friends - there was no way he was going to miss his opportunity to invite the teen over for an all-night fuck fest this time. Dawdling over a third cup of coffee while the boys nattered on about the nitwit in the White House - he pretty much tuned it out - he watched as the hour and minute hands on the wall clock finally ticked forward to read eight o’clock.

He started to rise from his seat, intending to offer the teen a ride - one which would end at the loft - when Michael reached across Emmett and tugged on his sleeve. “Brian,” he asked excitedly, “is it time for us to head to Woody’s?”

“What?” Brian responded absentmindedly, watching as Justin removed his pinny and headed to the break room.

“Woody’s?” his childhood friend reiterated. “You promised we’d go there tonight, since we never get to spend any time together any more.”

Shit, Brian thought, he _had_ promised that. He had also completely forgotten about it. And if he didn’t accompany Michael, he’d never hear the end of it. “All right,” he sighed, “let’s go.” He could only gaze forlornly after the blond as he exited the diner and vanished from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note 1: The 1040A and 1040EZ are IRS tax forms for those whose taxable income is under a set limit and who meet other restrictions; the standard 1040 is for taxpayers who want to itemise their deductions.
> 
> End Note 2: All right, here goes: Before any of you decide to rip out our spines and beat us over the head with them so we’ll finally put Justin and Brian together, we’d very kindly like to point out the ‘slow burn’ tag.
> 
> We understand your frustration at not seeing much progress on the romance front of this story, but whenever you’re feeling low, just imagine how Brian must be feeling. We can’t imagine a pair of balls more blue than those swinging low between our favourite brunet’s legs.
> 
> So just think of his pain and buckle up - it’s gonna be a long and bumpy ride still. :) 
> 
> End Note 3: Phyllis (aka YumYumPM), we hope we’ve done you proud as you at last receive your reward for the 100th review on AO3. :)
> 
> Here’s what Phyllis requested: Ted introduces Ben to the family and Mikey makes a play for him and is turned down big time.
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc, folks! There are contests - with another prize about to be awarded - so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, look, Christmas decorations - it's finally December in our story! What do you mean, it’s already February?”

Justin slid the paper he’d just finished scribbling over with logarithmic equations and derivations onto Dixon’s desk, checking once again that his name atop the test was legible. It wouldn’t do for Dixon to decide he couldn’t read it and deny him his rightfully earned grade.

With a flare of one nostril and a twist of his upper lip, the homophobic teacher conveyed his opinion of Justin’s efforts. Aloud, he only grunted a quiet, “Taylor,” however, nodding in acknowledgement that the teenager could depart. Dixon had promised the students that they could leave once they completed the exam, not actually expecting anyone to finish before the class period ended.

Casting a quick look over his shoulder at Daphne, who was still toiling away on the weekly exam, Justin exited the classroom. The blond student wasn’t surprised that he was the first to hand in his test, but he was a little startled to discover that it was just turning eight-thirty. Given the five minutes that the instructor had spent pontificating about what he expected from the “lazy, incompetent group,” he’d barely needed twenty minutes to whip out the exam. Huh, it looked like the time tutoring Daph and the cheerleader was having an unexpected side benefit - he knew the material backwards and forwards.

Justin hesitated for a moment about what to do with the unanticipated bit of free time. He’d like to have a cigarette, but it was too fucking cold to trudge out to the bleachers for a smoke. Instead, he decided to head to the library to chat with Frau Rose and do some research for his American Government project, an essay on student rights and the constitutional ‘guarantee’ of equal treatment.

 

While Justin was researching, at the loft, Brian was drumming his fingers restlessly against the dining room table.

“Relax,” Cynthia urged her boss, as they watched Theodore send a fax on the landline machine, simultaneously speaking with the realtor on the phone.

“Did you get it, Hampson?” the accountant inquired in a bored voice. “If your fax runs out of paper again, I’m not resending the bid. Mr Kinney remains uncertain about the property, so it’s a waste of my time to keep faxing you.”

“Uncertain, my ass,” the blond woman snickered quietly. “That’s like saying the pope’s uncertain about Jesus.”

Brian irritably flapped a hand at her. “Shush,” he ordered, straining to hear what Ted would say next. He’d wanted to put the call on speakerphone, but conceded when his CFO argued that Hanson might hear their voices in the background and become suspicious that he was being bamboozled. It was only a remote possibility, but the adman didn’t dare take the chance.

“Hampson,” Ted spoke coldly, “the bid’s for more than that old _whorehouse_ is worth. If it weren’t that my boss likes the idea of redeeming a den of sin, he wouldn’t be submitting such a generous offer.”

Cynthia snickered again, causing Brian to shoot a scathing glare in her direction. His recalcitrant employee merely rolled her eyes, however, not at all cowed. The adman could hear Ted’s end of the conversation perfectly fine, but the lack of control over the situation was making him particularly irascible. It was probably a good thing, he reflected, that his secretary had ‘forgotten’ to bring over an extra phone that he could plug into the jack in the bedroom area. If he’d been listening in, he’d undoubtedly have castigated the realtor for being a pathetic dimwit by now, which would bollocks up this opportunity to acquire the bathhouse for a song.

“That’s right, Hampson,” Ted’s voice warmed marginally. “The owners should be grateful that Mr Kinney is willing to relieve them of such a white elephant - a former brothel - for a more than fair price. There certainly haven’t been any other takers in the many months it’s been for sale.”

Christ, Brian winced. The older man was laying it on too thick; the hamster would never fall for it. Then again, he didn’t hear any squawking noises coming from the receiver that Theodore was holding loosely against his ear, so maybe it would be okay…

“Not acceptable,” Ted’s voice frosted over again. “Mr Kinney is _not_ willing to wait for two weeks to hear whether his bid has been accepted.”

Cynthia gasped in dismay, and Brian almost echoed her.

No way could they be ready to open in time for the new year if they had to wait that long just to find out the owners’ decision. It was already a miracle that matters seemed to be aligning to make that grand opening possible; if he didn’t know an experienced contractor like DC, who had connections at city hall and with the union, Brian suspected it would be three to four months before they could open the doors.

Brian glanced at his blonde assistant in surprise when she tugged gently at his arm. “What?” he tried to mouth at her, only to discover that he was biting at his thumbnail.

“Shit,” he grumbled in disgust, immediately removing the tip of his thumb from between his teeth. He must’ve caught the nasty habit from the blond brat, who’d been chewing on his thumbnail while they were talking at the diner last night.

All thoughts of the expensive, ruined manicure fled his mind, however, when Ted spoke up, “By next Wednesday? That’ll do, I suppose, as long as you understand that Mr Kinney’s offer will start dropping as of Tuesday, December 5th.”

This time, Brian could hear the squawk from the other end of the line, although it appeared to be an unformed sound, rather than actual words.

Ted held up a placating hand toward the adman, seeming to indicate he had it under control. He was blowing it, Brian fretted, chewing at his thumbnail again.

The CFO continued to play hardball, however. “It’s up to you now, Hampson. If you really want to sell the property, I’m sure you’ll be able to convince the owners to accept Mr Kinney’s ample bid.” After a brief pause, he agreed, “Yes, sooner rather than later _would_ be best.” He then ended the call without any sort of ‘goodbye’.

Cynthia voiced Brian’s own apprehension, “Erm, didn’t you maybe come on a bit too hard with the hamster? He might realise the bid is ridiculously low and tell the owners to blow you off.”

“There’s no such thing as too hard,” Theodore quipped, smirking. “Hampson needs a firm hand.”

Brian groaned, but couldn’t repress a grin. The terrible humour was making him feel better about the situation, he realised. Plus, he was the first to agree that one couldn’t be _too hard_. Quickly wrapping his fingers around his thumb to hide the evidence of his nervousness, he nonchalantly drawled, “Ted handled it just right; they’re bound to accept the offer.”

The accountant’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“What?” Brian countered, amused. “You were just following the script I gave you.”

Ted snorted. “You mean the ‘make him accept my offer, Theodore, or I’ll fire you before you’re even properly hired’? That was some script.”

“Works every time,” Brian averred with a smug smile.

“It does,” the blonde woman confirmed. “I can’t tell you how many times he pulled that same shtick at Ryder’s, with the most amazing results. Oh, speaking of hiring and firing,” she announced, “Bethany’s going to hand in her resignation today. Since Ryder’s such a penny-pincher with lower level staffing, the accounting department is short-handed, so she figures she’ll probably have to work the whole two-week notice period.”

“What’s she going to say if anyone asks why she’s leaving?” Brian asked, worried that Ryder might catch wind of his plans to open his own agency.

“A little fish like Bethany?” Cynthia rolled her eyes. “As if anyone’s going to be curious about a junior accountant. Heck, most of the advertising execs haven’t a clue where she works in the firm, and those that do think she’s just a secretary.”

Brian tilted his head to the left. “You mean she’s not a secretary?” he asked, face serious.

“Named Gertrude?” Theodore joined in.

“Traitor!” Cyntia accused, pointing at Ted. “I thought you were one of us hard-working minions.”

“I am,” Ted defended himself. “I was just channeling Brian for a moment, to see what it felt like.”

“Yeah, right,” Cynthia snarked. “Your head is getting big, Ted.”

“Give it up,” the adman concurred, laying a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You can’t possibly compete.”

The older man lifted his hands in a gesture of exasperation, sighing. “I’m not even the one who started this, so why am I the one getting shit? Shouldn’t we go back to talking about Ger- Bethany?”

“That’s what happens when you open your mouth, Theodore,” Brian joked.

“Oh, I thought that when you open your mouth, a cock flies in,” Ted returned, deadpan.

Cynthia gasped, “Good one! You win that round. Now, in regard to _Bethany_ , I suggest both of you practice saying her name, so you don’t end up calling her Gertrude by mistake.”

“How about ‘Trudy’?” Brian proposed.

“You’re incorrigible,” the blonde woman groaned.

“Frieda?” Ted added.

“ _Bethany_ ,” Cynthia stressed, “appreciates your concern for her well-being, Brian. She won’t try to solicit more clients for you until after she’s worked her last day at Ryder. She will pass on any information she overhears about dissatisfied clients, however, especially those she knows you recruited.”

Brian nodded, putting his business face back on. “So she’ll be ready to begin working on, what, the twentieth?”

Ted, who’d been looking at the calendar, considered this. “Maybe Monday, the eighteenth?” he theorized. “Unless she wants a short break after leaving Ryder’s.”

“She’ll have to work out of the loft with us at first then,” Brian concluded, looking around. “I might need another chair.”

“Huh?” Cynthia asked, lifting an eyebrow, pointing at the chairs around the table, and counting, “One, two, three, four.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “I need to keep at least one free in case someone unexpectedly comes over,” he explained as if she had just said something enormously stupid. “Or are you new to interior decorating?”

Before the secretary could issue a retort, Ted leaned over and whispered, “It’s in case _the other blond_ comes by.”

“Bollocks,” Brian interjected immediately. The blond brat would be doing most of his _work_ at night, and he wouldn’t need a chair for most of it anyway.

Theodore, who must’ve somehow read his mind - Brian was certain his thoughts hadn’t shown on his face - murmured, “The theory is Justin will be working long and hard into the night, I take it.”

Brian, whose thoughts had drifted to the two of them tangled up in his sheets, shifted uncomfortably. The third time had better be the fucking charm, he reflected. He was taking the blond home after he finished his shift at the diner today - come hell or high water.

When Brian didn’t respond to Ted’s witticism, Cynthia proposed, straight-faced, “For the short time period when we _might_ need another chair, you could always roll your desk chair over here, boss.”

“That’s a good idea,” Ted chimed in. “If all goes according to schedule, the bathhouse will be ready for us to occupy it shortly after Christmas, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Whatever,” Brian grumped, his mind still occupied with visions of the blond teenager naked in his bed, where he belonged.

“By the end of her first week, Bethany will be helping to oversee the setup of the new offices anyroad,” Cynthia noted. “In fact, I doubt any of us will be spending all that much time in the loft at that point.”

 

At St James, the blond Brian couldn’t stop thinking about was trotting down the stairs toward the cafeteria. “Hmm, what culinary delight awaits us today?” he jested to his bestie.

“I’ve got us covered,” Daphne assured him, “if it’s another-”

She stopped speaking when she plowed into someone at the bottom of the stairs. “Oof,” she said, looking down at a younger girl who was picking up the book she’d dropped, “sorry about that.”

“No worries,” the girl responded as she rose from her crouched position. “Oh, hey!” she then exclaimed, apparently recognising Justin.

It took him a moment before he realized this was Origami Girl, the red Chinese dragon fluttering from the strap of her backpack giving her away. “Hey up,” he greeted her in return. “You survived a second week of detention okay?”

“Yeah.” The girl shrugged as if it were no big deal, before grinning broadly. “Did you hear what happened to Bauer?”

Justin shook his head no.

“Apparently,” the girl revealed, “he fell in the shower at home and broke his collarbone. He won’t be back till next semester.”

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Justin snarked. “It must’ve been his meanness leaking out that made him slip.”

Daphne shared a smile of malicious satisfaction with them; the part-time detention instructor, part-time chemistry teacher, part-time athletic coach was unpopular with most of the student body. “Your dragon is really cool,” she told the younger girl, admiring the creature as its wings dipped and rose. “Where’d you get it?”

“I made it,” Origami Girl disclosed, her cheeks flushing with pleasure.

Justin eyed the red dragon more closely, the swift, deadly predator suddenly reminding him of Detective Wen. “I know someone who’d really like that,” he claimed. “Could I talk you into making one for me? I could pay you for it.”

“Oh, no. I’d never accept money from a fellow detainee,” the girl quipped, “especially not one as kind-hearted as you. The way you stood up for Josh was way cool.”

Who the fuck was Josh? Justin wondered, staring at the girl blankly.

“Oh, that’s right, you probably don’t know his name,” the girl explained. “He’s the scrawny frosh who was being bullied by that boneheaded jock.”

The blond student just shrugged, rather embarrassed. He was hardly the Good Samaritan she was making him out to be.

“I’d be glad to make whatever kind of dragon you want,” Origami Girl insisted, setting her backpack down and digging around inside. She pulled out a slender booklet and rifled through the pages. Handing it to Justin, she requested, “Choose the one you like best, and I’ll fold it for you.”

“Want to join us in the cafeteria?” Daphne suggested. “Jus can make a decision while we eat.”

“Thanks, but it’s too noisy for me in there,” she declined the invitation. “You’ve got IT with Süc for your last period, right?” she asked Justin.

“Uh, yeah,” Justin admitted. How the heck did Origami Girl know that?

“Great. I’ll get the booklet - and your choice - from you after class,” the girl stated, turning on her heel and walking away, the red dragon jauntily flapping its wings.

“I like her,” Daphne asserted, chuckling at the dumbfounded look on her friend’s face. “C’mon, Jus,” she urged, “let’s get some food, grab a seat, and check out those flying lizards.”

The blond boy huffed at his friend in exasperation as they joined the line of students waiting to be served. “A dragon is more than a teensy flying lizard. They breathe fire! Can you imagine how massive Drogon’s gonna be?”

Daphne argued, “He’s still a flying lizard, just the biggest one in _Game of Thrones_. And if I’m correct about who you want that origami dragon for, she wouldn’t be at all bothered by the comparison to a ‘teensy’ lizard. She’s small, but mighty, from what you’ve said, right?”

Justin stared at her, perplexed, as the line of students inched forward. “How’d you know I was talking about the detective?”

“Please,” Daph scoffed, hip-checking her friend, “we were just talking two nights ago about how she intimidated the crap out of you-know-who. Also, she’s Chinese.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he acknowledged sheepishly. “And I bet she had you-know-who believing she’s a fire-breather.” Hmm, he mused, maybe he’d have smoke curling out of Detective Wen’s nostrils in one of those caricatures he was drawing…

“Gah,” Daphne mumbled as they reached the counter where the cook was ladling out the food.

“Ugh,” Justin echoed her. “It’s that weird rice pudding with apricots.”

“Don’t you disparage it young man!” the burly female server glowered at the two friends, shaking the ladle at them and sending chunks of food flying every whichaway, students ducking in an effort to avoid the flying missiles. “It’s good for your bowels!”

The blond made a moue of disgust, reaching up to remove a glob of the ‘healthy bowel’ stuff from his hair.

Daphne snickered, right as the cook dumped an oversized portion into the bowl on her tray, flecks of the stuff landing on her navy blazer. “Shit!” she exclaimed, frantically brushing at her blazer. “My mum just had this dry-cleaned; she’s gonna kill me.”

It was Justin’s turn to snicker, which he did, along with giving his friend a roll of his eyes. “Don’t be such a drama queen,” he chastised, adding as he wiped away another smear from his hairline, “You’re not the one with it dripping down your face.”

“Now who’s being a drama queen?” Daphne asked, arching a finely-sculpted eyebrow at her friend.

Justin hastily stepped back as the cook went to glop some of the gooey substance into his bowl. “Uh, I’m good,” he said blandy. “I’ll just share what you gave Daph; that size portion would be too much for her bowels.”

After adding some overcooked broccoli, a couple of rolls, and two small cartons of milk to their trays, they moved away from the line of students. “Here, bestie,” Daphne thrust her tray at him. “Since we’re going to _share_ , you take this and find us a place to sit. I’ll be just a tick - I want to grab a damp paper towel and swipe at my jacket before this gunk sets in permanently.”

With that, the girl was gone, rushing toward the restrooms at the back of the canteen. The blond carefully wended his way through the cafeteria, one tray in his hands, the other balanced precariously across his forearms, until he reached a couple of empty seats next to the windows. He squatted slightly to set down the tray in his hands, before easing the other one forward onto the table. He then rescued the origami catalog from beneath his arm and began leafing through it while he waited for his friend to return. He had no desire to eat the unappetizing food and thought he’d wait to see what Daphne had brought them, before revealing the crab cakes nestled inside a thermal food carrier in his rucksack. He probably should have told his friend about the cakes, he mused, but it had been so much fun to watch her get riled up - even if his hair had gotten doused with a product meant for one’s bowels.

“I’m back,” Daphne announced, holding out her arms as she moved to stand opposite him. “Did I get it all?”

The blond lad wasn’t sure why the sight of his fully-clothed, petite friend made him flash back to that first night with Brian, the naked man’s arms outstretched in an ‘I dare you to come and get it’ sort of way. Maybe it was because he was still discombobulated from his conversation with Brian the night before.

“Jus?” Daph’s voice and the snap of her fingers intruded on his reflections. “Did I get it all?” she repeated impatiently.

The teenager shifted in his seat, glad that he was sitting down, the tenting of his slacks hidden by the table. He couldn’t think about a naked Brian and not experience that reaction. “Erm,” he cleared his throat, casting a hasty look at the damp spots on Daphne’s blazer, “I don’t see any pudding bits.”

“Thank fuck,” the girl said, sinking into her seat. “What were you thinking about anyway? You totally spaced out on me.”

He wasn’t about to tell her - it might lead to a rerun of their ‘virginity’ conversation. Thankfully he had a ready answer, since he did want his friend’s advice about what had happened between Michael and Ben. First things first, however. “So,” he inquired, pushing the tray will the unappetizing, crusty pudding toward Daphne, “what did you bring to relieve us from consuming this glop?”

“I don’t want that anywhere near me!” the girl shrieked, pushing the tray back toward Justin. “It’s got that yucky syrup on it - the kind they pour in your water when you’re little so you’ll drink the stuff.” She patted her sleeves frantically, as if some of the sticky substance might have jumped onto her jacket.

“Definitely a drama queen,” the boy jested.

“I shouldn’t share the good stuff, not when you’re being such a dickwad,” Daph protested, nevertheless digging around in her rucksack and then triumphantly holding aloft a package of Oreos. “I didn’t forget them this time,” she boasted.

“Guess you won’t want any crab cakes then,” Justin observed slyly.

“Crab cakes? Where? Gimme!” his best friend squealed, making grabby hands at him.

The lad merely stared at her in amusement.

“C’mon, Jus,” she wheedled with an adorable pout. “I brought dessert, and I’m willing to share.”

“Well, all right,” the blond teen said with feigned reluctance, taking the container with the crab cakes from his backpack. He dished half of the patties into his empty bowl - the one he hadn’t let the cook fill with the revolting pudding - and nudged it across the table to Daphne.

“Mhmm,” she moaned, immediately scarfing down one of the cakes. “They should have these at the diner all the time,” she claimed around a mouthful of crabby goodness.

“Are you imitating Michael’s eating habits?” Justin quipped.

Daphne shot him an offended look. “Am not,” she objected. “Notice that I placed a hand in front of my mouth before speaking,” she continued, wiggling the fingers of said hand at her friend.

“Um, let’s change the subject,” Justin proposed. “Thinking of how Michael masticates is putting me off my feed.”

Daph nodded vehemently in agreement.

“There is another lesson in etiquette that I would like your opinion on, however,” Justin disclosed. “I-”

“What’d you stick your foot into this time?” Daphne interjected, grinning mischievously at him.

“It’s not about me,” Justin protested, “at least not directly. It’s that I don’t know what do about someone else’s breach of etiquette.”

“What’d this hypothetical person do?” the girl asked. “Claim his best friend’s teddy bear for himself?”

“Christ,” the blond chuckled ruefully. “I’d forgotten that I practically stole Gus-bear from you - according to my mother, that is. I can’t actually remember that far back.”

“My mum used to love to tell that tale, how she had to go out and buy another teddy for me.” Daphne smiled in fond reminiscence. “I wish both our mothers still loved you as much as they did back then,” she said sadly, placing a sympathetic hand on Justin’s arm.

“Um, yeah,” Justin choked out, dismayed to find himself becoming teary-eyed at the unexpected turn in the conversation.

“Shit. I’m sorry.” Daphne mumbled, clearly appalled by her faux pas in the midst of the student refectory.

Justin cast an uneasy look around, blinking rapidly, grateful that no one else was seated at the small table. “The, uh, the breach of etiquette” - he stammered huskily as he got back on track - “is related to how friends _should_ treat each other.”

Giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it, Daphne gently teased, “That’s not quite enough info for me to form an opinion, Jus. What happened?”

“Michael,” Justin blurted, “it’s not just the lessons in table manners that didn’t take. He came on to a guy at the diner last night, someone who was clearly there with Ted.”

“Ted has a boyfriend?” Daph inquired curiously, pronouncing, “Good for him.” when Justin nodded. She paused for a moment, considering what her friend had divulged. “Are you sure it was more than harmless flirting?” she wondered. “I mean, that’s a pretty normal thing to do. And, I mean, coming onto the guy in front of Ted isn’t exactly being stealthy - maybe he was just being his usual heavy-handed, dweeby self.”

“It wasn’t in front of Ted,” Justin clarified. “And it was definitely more than just a bit of casual flirtation. Granted, you’d have to be blind not to notice how good-looking Ben is - that’s Ted’s beau - and not be attracted to him. I had a bit of fun myself, but that was all it was - fun.”

“Get on with it,” Daph ordered, exasperation tinging her voice when Justin stopped speaking again.

The blond, who was looking directly at the girl, noticed the way her eyes darted away from his, a surefire giveaway that she was up to something.

“Don’t think I didn’t see your hand sliding over here, fork poised, ready to spear one of my crab cakes,” he admonished, sending his friend a speaking look as he curled an arm protectively around his lunch container.

“Dammit.” Daphne pouted, before entreating, “Couldn’t you give me one more? You can eat your fill at the diner this afternoon.”

Unable to completely resist her beseeching brown eyes, Justin cut one of the patties in two, giving Daph the larger piece.

“Ta,” she thanked him, happily munching away. Flapping a hand at him, she gave permission, “You can go on now.”

“I’d better eat this first,” the boy joked, “or it’ll go down your gullet instead of mine.” He took a bite, followed by a swallow of milk, and then explained the circumstances in detail. When he finally reached the point where Michael had smarmed, “If you wanna ditch boring Ted after we eat our crab cakes, I’m available to show you a good time, Big Boy.” while he and Brian stood frozen near the booth, Daphne’s jaw had dropped almost to the table.

“He really said _that_?”

“Word for word,” Justin affirmed. “It’s burned into my memory.”

“Gross.” Daphne opined, wiping her hands on a napkin before opening the Oreos, removing a few, and nudging the package toward her friend. “So what’d this Ben character do? He must’ve been completely turned off by the little pissant.”

“He made it clear he wasn’t available,” the blond teen revealed, “even though he was really nice and polite about it, which could be part of the reason Michael didn’t cotton on that he was being rejected. The berk interrupted what Ben was saying, nattering on about how Ted wouldn’t really mind if Ben just let him down gently. He implied that while Ted was out of Ben’s league, it’d be different with Michael.”

“Fuck,” Daphne breathed out, a cookie suspended partway to her mouth.

“Yeah.” Justin nodded in disgust. “I was still frozen in shock, but Brian finally got his feet unstuck from the floor and made an effort to defuse the situation before Ted got back from the restroom. After he greeted Ben - turns out the guy is a professor - Michael came up with this ridiculously pathetic spiel about how was only testing Ben, to make sure he was good enough for ‘plain old Ted.’”

Daphne giggled. “He hit on a _professor_ ? Most people can run rings around Michael mentally, I suspect, but a professor would be _way_ out of his league.”

“That _was_ the funny part,” Justin acknowledged. “You should’ve seen Michael’s eyes bug out when he squeaked, ‘You’re a professor?’”

After they stopped laughing, Justin explained how he’d confronted Brian later that evening and how they resolved that his ex would sound out Ted, only divulging what Michael had done if the older man indicated he’d want to know about something like that.

“I’m like you, Jus,” Daphne said after a thoughtful pause. “I’d want to know if someone hit on my boyfriend. But Brian could be right about not interfering; it might make matters worse, especially if Ted ends up being really hurt. I mean think of the repercussions if he never talked to Michael again. It would serve the nitwit right, but what about the extended family, especially Deb?”

“Christ,” Justin breathed out, “I never thought about that. I wouldn’t want my surrogate mum to be hurt. She did her best to raise Michael right, and of course she loves the muppet.” His brow furrowed in concentration, he solicited, “What do you think I should do? It’s so weird to be in the position of knowing more about proper etiquette than an older man.”

“You mean behaving with common human decency?” Daphne snarked. “He should know better than to stab a friend in the back.”

Justin shrugged. “It’s debatable whether Mikey realises he contravened the rules of friendship. He was supposedly being a good friend, protecting Ted from Big Bad Ben.”

“Yeah,” Daphne chuckled, “all that without even knowing the guy’s name _or_ that he’s a professor.”

“He was blinded by a handsome face and the muscles rippling beneath the professor’s clothes,” Justin quipped. “Nice of him not to want the same to happen to Ted.”

“Michael has a pretty good-looking, muscular bloke of his own,” Daph observed. “Maybe you should wait and see what happens? If he’s happy with Dr Dave, he probably won’t hit on Ben again.”

“I’ll do that,” the boy concurred, relieved to have talked out the matter with his friend. Now maybe it would stop nagging at him.

“At least you got Brian to talk to you - and to agree to approach Ted.” Daphne smiled at him encouragingly. “That’s good, right?”

“Hmm,” Justin replied noncommittally.

The curly haired girl raised a questioning eyebrow. “That’s not good?” she asked.

“He was just so… maddening.” Justin threw his hands up in the air as he tried to express his conflicted feelings in regard to his former lover.

“Maddening how?” his best friend queried, leaning closer.

“Well, it was kinda flattering when he asked me to freelance for his new company, but then-”

“Wait, he what?” Daph shrieked. “You just totally glossed over that, Justin! He asked you to work for him?”

“You didn’t let me finish,” the boy grumbled. “I really don’t know how much he wants me to do for him or how many hours would be involved. I guess the pay would be decent, though, since the next thing out of his mouth was an assertion that I could give up the go-go dancing.”

The girl grinned. “That’s great, Jus! I mean, I did want to come down and see you shake your arse to ‘In the Navy’ at least once, but this,” she waved her arms around, “is great.”

“It’s not great,” Justin denied, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s Brian deciding for me what I should do. What’s so _great_ about that?”

Daphne made a weird face. “O-kay,” she said slowly, “so you’re not taking the job then?”

The blond glared at his friend. “Of course I’m going to take the job; it’s a chance to use my art professionally. But that doesn’t mean I have to give up dancing.”

His best friend was straight out scowling at that point. “Oh, I didn’t think you’d ditch the diner,” she said quietly. “Debbie will be heartbroken.”

“I’m not quitting the diner!” Justin yelled, causing heads to turn in their direction.

“Then I don’t get it!” Daph yelled right back. “You’re gonna stop going to school or something? What the hell are you going to do, Jus?”

“Sure, I’m going to drop out of school,” the boy sneered. “That would be beyond dumb, Daphne. I don’t get why ‘everyone’ thinks I have to give up something, though. Working for Brian will probably just be temporary - he’s bound to hire a full-time artist soon - and it may not involve very many hours.”

His friend gave him a cautious look. “Did you think this through? There’s only so much you can do in a day, Justin; you’re not Superman.”

“I know,” the lad begrudgingly acknowledged. Daphne wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t thought, but… “If I can manage it, though, I’ll be able to pay Brian back sooner, so I want to give it a try.”

Daph laughed, lightening up. “It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it - Brian paying you to work for him, so that you can turn around and repay him?”

The blond shrugged, smiling helplessly. “I guess,” he admitted. “I’m not planning on him finding out, though.”

Daph opened her mouth to remark something, but what came out was a breathless ‘Oof’ as she got unexpectedly shoved in the back by a passing jock.

“Hey, Chambers!” the idiot hollered. “Why don’t you ditch the poofter and show me your secret chamber?” he suggested, accompanying his words with a lewd thrust of the hips.

“Ew,” Daph scowled in disgust, to the merriment of the jock’s friends. “My chamber is _authorised personnel only_ , thanks.”

“He got your name wrong,” Justin uttered drily, swallowing the last bit of his crab cake. “Makes him a great candidate to relieve you of your virginity.”

His friend rolled her eyes in such a way, Justin wondered how she managed to keep them in her head. “Fuck off,” she said with a laugh.

Casting a glance at the wall clock, Justin suggested, “We’d both better ‘fuck off’ to physics if we don’t want to be late.”

“Ugh,” Daph commented, disgust clear on her face. “Do we really have to?” she whined.

“Yeah, if you want to have a chance of earning that bonus from your dad,” Justin reminded her.

“The things I do for a bit of filthy lucre,” Daphne grumbled as she stood up.

“You could always try shaking your wares at a titty bar instead,” the blond joked.

“I’d consider it - if my bazookas were big enough to generate enough of the ready to justify the effort.” Daphne sighed, “Unfortunately, we’ve already established that isn’t the case.”

“There was no _we_ involved.” Justin retorted as they carried their trays to the kitchen window. “That was a unilateral assumption on your part. I think your-” the blond boy stumbled at referring to that part of the anatomy a second time, “uh, mammary glands are perky.” Waving a hand in the general direction of her chest, he noted, “At least they don’t flop around like the bigger ones do.”

His friend sighed again. “Most guys seem to think that _bigger is better_. Yours is hardly the most reliable opinion, Jus.”

The lad stopped dead, struck by a horrifying thought as they were about to exit the canteen. “Uh, you’re not gonna get one of those boob jobs, are you?”

“Of course not!” his friend refuted, to Justin’s immense relief. With her tiny frame, he couldn’t imagine how she’d stand erect; the augmented breasts would surely weigh her down.

“I wouldn’t mind at all if mine were to increase in size naturally,” Daphne wished, tugging Justin out of the way of other students leaving the canteen. “But breast enlargement is a chancy business; it can cause all sorts of health problems later on.”

“Thank fuck,” the lad mumbled, earning an elbow in the side from his bestie and a teasing, “You’re supposed to be _supportive_ , Jus.”

Groaning at the terrible joke, Justin opted to change the subject as they made their way to the physics classroom. “How do you think you did on the calculus test this morning?”

“Besides the fact that, unlike a certain smarty-pants, I needed every single minute of class time to answer almost all of the questions,” Daphne reckoned, “I’m pretty sure I did better than on any test so far - maybe as high as a B.”

“That’s rad, Daph,” Justin exclaimed, giving his friend a high five. “You’re improving really quickly.”

“Not quickly enough. I’m going to have to do better than that to pull my overall grade up to a B-. No dough from my dad if I can’t manage that.” She fretted, “I may have to fall back on that striptease idea of yours, after all, Jus.”

The blond gave her a roll of his eyes. “Like that’s gonna happen, Daph. You have your dad so wrapped around your little finger that you’ll be able to coax money out of him regardless.”

“True,” the girl admitted, “but I’d like to _earn_ it, you know?”

“There’s time yet to do just that,” Justin assured her. “We’ve got the mandatory study session tomorrow, and then I’ll tutor you some more on Wednesday.”

“Your tutoring gave me a real boost,” Daphne claimed as she entered the classroom ahead of Justin. “And, although I can hardly believe I’m saying this, I’m actually looking forward to that mandatory session. I need every possible edge if I’m going to dig my way out of the hole I got myself into.”

“You’ll manage,” Justin stated confidently.

“With your help,” his friend agreed. “I do wish it didn’t involve coping with Dickhead Dixon on a Saturday, though.”

“Even Chris doesn’t want to see his mug on the weekend,” a voice interjected from behind them.

Justin whirled around, surprised to discover that it was Sydney who had spoken.

“Shut your gob, Taylor,” the cheerleader laughed, less meanly than had been her wont, “or you’ll catch flies.” With that she sauntered over to her usual desk, slouching down and looking bored.

Daphne giggled as they made their way to their seats. “She’s right, Jus. That was quite the fly-catching expression.”

The blond shot her an affronted look, pointedly ignoring his friend as he dug his textbook out of his backpack. Girls, he thought in exasperation, always ganging up on people.

 

Finally, Brian thought to himself as he entered the diner that afternoon and espied just the person he needed to ease the ache in his balls. The blond’s perfect bubble butt was enticingly displayed as he bent over, chucking a young child under the chin. As he sauntered closer, the tyke blew a spit bubble against Justin’s cheek.

Yuck! Completely the wrong kind of bodily fluids in Brian’s opinion. What was it with blondes anyhow, that they had to coo over every baby they encountered? It was perfectly understandable with Gus, the brunet stud mused, since his son was a reflection of his own good looks. But other babies - why bother?

When Brian overheard the teen address the two lesbians seated in the booth, “The teething star did the trick then?” it made him grimace. Gus still didn’t have a single tooth, which was a bone of contention whenever the neighbourhood dykes descended on Lindsay and Melanie and started bragging about how their kids had gotten teeth at four months or whenever-the-fuck.

The blonde lezzie beamed at Justin. “It did! Chrissy has been a much happier baby since we got one for her.”

“Which means we’re getting some proper rest,” the other woman chimed in, chuckling wryly. “I don’t have bags under my eyes for the first time in forever.”

“When we’re ready to get pregnant again,” the blonde asserted, “we’ll be prepared for any eventuality, including a teething two-month-old or...”

“...for the baby to be gnashing its teeth as it comes out of the womb,” her partner concluded.

Both Brian and Justin flinched at that appalling picture. “Kid like that’ll never make a cocksucker,” Brian muttered.

He mustn’t have been all that quiet, however, Justin glancing over his shoulder at him in amused agreement. Fortunately, neither of the carpet munchers heard him, so he wasn’t subjected to a bulldyke tirade.

“Let me know if you want more tea, ladies,” the teenager offered. “And if you get hungry, you should definitely try the crab cakes. The supply’s getting low, so they probably won’t be available past tomorrow.”

“Ooh, we can’t miss out on the crab!” the blonde squealed. “We’ll be giving you our order in a little while.”

“Just give me a shout.” the lad advised, before turning toward Brian. “You’re here earlier than usual. Did you need a cup of sugar to rev your engine?”

“My _engine_ is always fully primed.” The brunet stud leered at the blond. “Care to take it for a test drive?”

“Huh?” Justin momentarily looked poleaxed, but then he frowned, crossly rebuking, “Very funny, Brian. You decided you’d had enough of me fine-tuning your engine, remember?”

Dammit. Brian wanted to kick himself for his less than suave approach - he’d meant to build up to the ‘come over for a fuck’ invitation. Now he was going to have to smooth things over before trying again. It wouldn’t do, though, for the lad to see that his rejection smarted a bit, so the adman insouciantly remarked, “I see you’ve forgotten how to engage in witty repartee, Sunshine.”

“Oh, there was some wit buried in there somewhere?” Justin snarked.

Double damn. The lad was too sharp by half, and it was hard for Brian to think straight, what with his blue balls clamouring ever more stridently for attention. Ignoring the teen’s barbed comment, he glanced around, pleased to note that he’d timed his visit accurately - arriving during the lull that usually occurred between the early dinner crowd those who ate later on. It was also well before any of the gang could be expected to show their faces, so there wouldn’t be any busybodies butting in on their conversation. “Can you take a break?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to you about some of the art projects I have in mind.”

Justin eyed him suspiciously. “Promise you aren’t going to lecture me about the dance gig?”

The adman could feel his muscles tensing up. He very much would like to lecture Justin about his stupidity, but that wouldn’t get the lad into his bed. “Nope. It’s your funeral,” he grunted.

That stellar assessment earned him a glare, but after looking around the quiet eatery, Justin acquiesced. “Let me just tell Kiki I’m taking my break, and I’ll join you in a sec. You want coffee?”

Brian nodded yes, before settling into a booth midway down the windowed wall, facing the door so he’d be prepared in case any of the gang did show up unexpectedly early.

Less than two minutes passed before Justin bustled over to the table, a tray laden with coffee and a plate with some kind of fruity dessert in his hands, a sketchpad tucked under one arm.

“What’s that?” the older man questioned, eyeing the sweet askance as it oozed something red.

The blond brat had the temerity to chide, “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Bri,” as he set down the cups of coffee and the dessert. “This raspberry tart’s for me, not you. Not that it would hurt you to have a bite; it’s nowhere near seven o’clock.”

Feigning indifference, the stud muttered, “Whatever.” Bloody tart did look tempting, and he had the perfect exercise planned, which would work off more than the carbs contained in just one bite… The brunet decided he’d wait a moment and see if the lad scarfed it down too fast for him to get a taste. If not, he might try a nibble.

“Wait a minute.” Brian frowned when he looked down at his cup of coffee, which had only been filled about halfway, as compared to the full one in front of Justin. “Why are you shorting me on the coffee?”

The blond gave him a ‘duh’ look. “I didn’t short you. I just left room for your mountain of sugar.”

“Har de har,” Brian grumbled. “I don’t use that much sugar,” he insisted, turning the sugar dispenser upside down and shaking some of the white granules into his coffee. He stared at the teen the entire time, daring him to dispute the facts.

“Uh-huh,” Justin taunted. “Why’s your cup overflowing then?”

“Shit,” Brian cursed, looking down to see sugar streaming out of the container and coffee slopping over the sides of the cup into the saucer.

“I’ll get you a fresh cup,” a giggling Justin offered, rising from the booth and removing the messy dishes. “That might be a bit much sugar, even for you.”

“So what do you want me to work on?” the teen inquired after placing a fresh, half-filled cup on a clean saucer in front of Brian. He pushed the dessert plate to one side, where it ended up centered between the two men, before flipping open his sketch pad and looking at Brian inquiringly.

“You can begin with designs for a company logo,” Brian replied, deliberately not elaborating on the statement.

“Did you have something you wanted me to base that logo on?” Justin queried. “Or perhaps you want an image of an advertising superhero emerging from…” The boy trailed off, apparently trying to envision the right setting.

The lad’s humorous proposal for an emblem solidified Brian’s certainty that Justin was the artist responsible for the likeness on his AdStud coffee mug. He still hadn’t puzzled out how Cynthia acquired the drawing, but he doubted the teenager knew anything about it. The kid couldn’t dissemble that well; he’d have snickered or shown some other sign of amusement by now if he was in on the joke.

The adman was tempted to torture Justin for a little longer by withholding his decision to go with Justin’s suggested name for the agency - he could tell it was killing the boy not to ask. Since he could hardly expect the lad to come up with any decent ideas if he did that, though - and in the interest of luring Justin to come home with him - Brian capitulated, drawling, “Some whiz kid came up with a bloody brilliant name for the company. You can use that as a starting point.”

Good decision, Brian congratulated himself when Justin beamed at him. “Anything else?” the teenager asked, his pencil already flying across the paper in his sketch pad, scribbling a warped-looking ‘K’.

“What the fuck is that?” Brian questioned. Even if it was only a first effort, he’d expected something more elegant.

Justin threw him an unimpressed glance. “That,” he said slowly, “is my thought process.”

Brian didn’t want to critique the lad just yet - regardless of how lame his ‘thought process’ might be - so he absently stabbed at the raspberry pastry with his spoon. “What the fuck?” he spluttered, the metal utensil clanking against the plate, on which only a few crumbs remained.

The blond brat quirked an eyebrow at him. “Someone must’ve eaten it,” he deadpanned.

Brian sniffed haughtily. “No wonder your design looks like a child tried to write their name,” he snarked. “If you concentrated a bit more on your work than on your stomach, then-”

“It’s not my design!” Justin interrupted him. “It’s a thought process. I scribble something down, while imagining what the final result might look like. Besides,” he added, “it’s your spoon that’s coated in red goop, not mine.”

Hastily sucking the evidence off of his spoon, Brian claimed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just had one bite.”

Justin rolled his lips in amusement. “Sure.”

The adman glared at the boy. “Let’s get back on topic. I’ll accept that your lopsided ‘K’ is a very underwhelming first draft and allow you to take a stab at the boards for my first account. Let me know if you come up with a way to make taxes sexy, and I’ll work up advertising copy to fit the art.”

Raising a questioning eyebrow, Justin repeated, “Taxes?”

“It’s for an accounting firm,” Brian disclosed. “A good part of their annual income derives from tax preparation.”

“That’s,” he paused, searching for an appropriate word. “Unfortunate,” he finished.

“To say the least,” the adman concurred drily. “No wonder Theodore jumped at the chance to come work for me.”

“Wait, your client is Wertshafter? Ted’s firm?” the blond questioned, surprised.

“Yes,” Brian divulged. “When Theodore turned in his resignation, he touted me to his old boss, prompting Wertshafter to contact me. I won’t have any problem increasing his business - a media blitz will take care of that - but I want the campaign to have the sex appeal that will be a hallmark of my agency.”

Justin shrugged. “I can’t think of an angle right now.”

“Just let it roll around in that bright, little, blond head of yours,” the adman urged, smirking at the teenager.

“My brain _is_ fresher than yours, since it’s more than a decade younger,” Justin quipped. “Besides, blonds do it better.”

Whatever the lad actually meant by ‘do it,’ the brunet stud considered it to practically be an engraved invitation, and he wasn’t going to let his opportunity slip away. Pretending to be completely relaxed, he leaned back, resting one arm along the top of the banquette. “We’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together, working on various projects,” he commented.

“Yeah?” Justin responded, clearly wondering why Brian was stating the obvious.

“It’d be _convenient_ ” - Brian made sure to stress ‘convenient’ so the lad wouldn’t mistake what he was offering - “if you were to stay at the loft occasionally. We’ll doubtless be working deep into the night.” The brunet stud spoke carefully, endeavouring to sound casual. Fuck, he thought. This had to work out; he was desperate to get laid. “Maybe even tonight?” he proposed.

The teenager simply stared at him for long moments, mouth agape. “You mean you were serious earlier with that ‘engine’ shit?” he finally asked.

Brian winced at having his first, admittedly crass, effort dismissed that way. “Sure,” he managed to reply in an offhand tone. “Why not? You have a better offer on tap?” If it was that _Bob_ fucker, he mused, he was going to hunt the guy down and-

Justin interrupted his plans for _Bob’s_ demise, when he challenged hotly, “What business of yours is it who I fuck?”

“I don’t care who you fuck,” Brian denied, quashing the niggling voice in his hindbrain that jeered at him for lying. “I just thought you might like to roll around on my new mattress - test its durability.”

“You want me - the guy you booted out for _supposedly_ not setting the alarm - to come over for a fuckathon on the mattress you bought to replace the one the burglars violated?” Rather than rising in pitch, Justin’s voice had gotten lower, as he growled out the question, angry spots of red in his formerly pale cheeks.

Even though Brian had begun to suspect that Justin might not have been at fault for the robbery, he still didn’t know for sure, and he certainly wasn’t ready to admit anything to the boy. Instead, he shrugged, allowing, “I may have been a bit harsh. In any case, I’m willing to forgive you.”

“ _A bit harsh_ ,” the teenager echoed, disbelief etched across his features. “You know what, Brian? You can go fuck yourself. You have yet to say you’re sorry for accusing me of carelessness in front of our friends, and I’d damned well better hear that apology before _I_ will consider forgiving _you_.”

Really, the boy was being utterly ridiculous. Brian started to protest, “There’s no call for histrionics-” when Justin cut him off.

“If you really wanted to seduce me for a meaningless fuck,” the boy sneered, “I’d think you would at least have bothered to learn my schedule. I dance at Babylon on Fridays and Saturdays, _remember_?” With that, the teenager stood up, collected the dirty dishes, and stomped off to the kitchen.

Brian stared after him, barely able to believe his well-meant invitation, purely intended to relieve sexual tension, had turned into such a tits-up disaster. There was no way he was going to chase after the lad and apologise - at least not until he figured out a way to do so without uttering a pathetic “I’m sorry” - so he’d have to come up with some other solution to relieve his sexual frustration.

The brunet stud rose carefully from his seat, mindful of his blue balls, which ached horribly. The one saving grace in this mess, he reflected, was that the diner was still mostly empty, meaning no one had observed him crashing and burning. Brian took his wallet from his jeans, dropping a note on the table, leaving twenty as a tip. With a yearning look toward the kitchen, he then donned his coat and strode out of the diner.

 

Shortly after Brian departed, Justin emerged from the back of the diner. When he saw that his former lover had left, he relaxed slightly, although he was still fuming. He grabbed a damp cloth and went to wipe down the table, startled when he discovered a twenty dollar bill on the table.

Justin hesitantly picked up the money, which was way too large a tip for a cup of coffee. He couldn’t help feeling weird about the overly generous gratuity. It annoyed him that while he was busting his butt working two jobs to pay the man back, Brian could just throw money around like this. Too irritated to take into account that his former lover knew nothing about the efforts he was making to repay him, he mused that if he deposited the money in the bank account, it would ultimately end up back in Brian’s pocket. That would wipe the slate clean.

For the second time that afternoon, Justin trotted over to Kiki. “Erm, would you mind if I ran a quick errand?” he queried. “I don’t mean to leave you in the lurch, but there’s something I need to take care of.”

“Relax, Sunshine,” the tranny replied, smiling at the flustered teen. “It’s so quiet at the moment, I could almost fall asleep. Go run your errand. Shoo!” she insisted, flapping the bottom of her apron at him.

Justin still didn’t feel right about taking what amounted to a double break, so he didn’t bother to remove his apron, just pulling on his jacket before jogging the couple of blocks to PNC Bank. When he entered the bank, there was no one in line, so he was able to walk directly up to a teller. A bit short of breath, he gasped, “Um, I’d like to make a deposit, please.”

“Your account number and the amount you’d like to deposit, young man?”

“Er, one second,” the embarrassed teen replied, thinking he should have filled out a deposit slip before stepping up to the window. He scrambled around for his wallet and removed a tattered piece of paper which, along with the twenty, he shoved at the man behind the window.

When the man glanced at the money and then at him, Justin belatedly realized his name tag indicated he was a branch manager. He flushed, assuming the man thought he was an idiot for wanting to deposit such a paltry amount.

The manager surprised him, though, nodding approvingly and stating, “Good for you, young man. I wish more young people were conscientious about saving their money; small amounts add up quickly.”

The blond lad smiled back abashedly. He wouldn’t be nearly as ‘conscientious’ if he weren’t trying to pay back Brian, he was sure. “Thanks,” was all he said, however, as he accepted the receipt the manager handed to him.

Justin heaved a sigh of relief as he jogged back to the diner. Now that the money had been deposited, he felt better. He’d been tempted to apply it toward a pair of warm, waterproof boots, but he was proud of himself for not giving in.

 

Meanwhile, Brian was fuming as he sat behind the wheel of his jeep and scowled at the snow that had begun falling outside. Miserable weather for a miserable day, he thought sourly. He couldn’t understand what Justin’s problem was - first the boy was pissed he had kicked him out, and now he was angry because he asked him back? Why did the blond always have to make everything so complicated?

Slamming his palms against the steering wheel in frustration, Brian adjusted his trousers. It was starting to get really uncomfortable to sit, and the brunet knew he had to do something about his blue balls or they might just fall off.

He turned his key in the ignition and slowly pulled out from the curb, joining the rest of the early evening traffic. Maybe he’d just drive around the neighbourhood for a while and pick someone off the street - he was sure many a fag would be willing to come with him. Besides, a similar approach had worked for him before - he had found Justin underneath a lamppost, after all.

Brian slowly rolled down Liberty Avenue, window shopping for a passable-looking guy that could satiate his hunger, when he noticed a familiar couple making out in front of Ript, the local gym. The older guy, who was wearing an expensive, dark blue winter coat and a fedora hat of all things, was pressing his younger lover into a wall, running a hand through his reddish blond hair and shoving his tongue in his mouth.

Good for him, Brian thought. The fedora-bloke looked to be around fifty, while his reasonably hot companion had to be in his early thirties. The adman secretly hoped he’d have a game like that when he was - shudder - fifty. On second thought, it might not have been game that allowed the old guy to snag his redhead - could’ve been the heaps of money he clearly had.

His brain suddenly came to an abrupt halt as he remembered where he had seen the couple before. That horrid night at Babylon, it had been these two that had helped him get rid of his insistent trick. The strawberry blond had been the first to notice something was wrong, deciding to speak up. When that hadn’t helped, his older lover used some of his marine know-how to knock the persistent dude on his arse.

Shivering involuntarily at the memory, Brian balked. Sure, cruising for guys off the street was a good idea in theory but, in reality, anything could happen. It would be better to find someone he knew he could trust and, as his first choice of fuck had fallen through, his only other option was to look for a professional. Not some dirty hustler off the streets, mind you, but rather someone who was guaranteed to be clean and who would stop if he told them to stop.

After deciding it would be best to go with an escort, Brian continued on to his loft. He pulled into an empty parking space a block away from his apartment building, then quickly made his way along the slippery pavement. Once home, he charged upstairs, taking the steps three at a time, anxious for some relief, the denim of his jeans abrading his balls the whole way. Stupid of him to have gone commando, the stud reflected, but he’d thought the blond would be a sure thing - and that maybe the brat would be enticed to give him a hand job in the jeep.

Brian swore when the keys dropped from his fingers as he went to insert the correct one in the keyhole. Once he finally succeeded in opening the door, he slammed it shut behind himself, leaned back against it, and frantically pushed down his jeans. That rubbing action had been too much - he needed to take off the edge _now_ , and then he’d call the escort service he had on speed-dial.

The brunet tugged at his shaft, once, twice, and then it was over, viscous fluid arcing outward before dropping onto the hardwood floor. Damn, that was over embarrassingly fast.

Brian quickly shrugged off his almost premature ejaculation, thankful that no one else had been around to witness his performance. At least he should now be able to give a lucky guy the ride of his life, the stud thought. He sauntered over to his landline, where he had the number for the escort agency stored - he didn’t have the number programmed into his mobile since he had no need for it when he was out and about. Pressing ‘6’, he listened as the phone rang.

“Supreme Escorts at your service,” a smooth tenor announced. “What’s your pleasure?”

Brian described what he wanted in specific detail and then asked, “How long till you can deliver?”

He heard muted clicking noises at the other end of the line, as the man presumably searched a database for someone who matched his request. “It looks like we can have a companion there within ninety minutes,” the dispatcher eventually replied.

“Ninety minutes?” Brian complained. “Why the fuck do you need that much time? Are short blonds such a rarity?”

“You asked for a bit more than that,” the man primly retorted. “The best match for your request can’t be at your place any earlier.”

The brunet stud scowled, realising the ‘best match’ must currently be working. “Make sure he cleans up thoroughly,” he demanded, revolted by the notion of dealing with sloppy seconds.

He hung up while the dispatcher was squawking, “I assure you, sir, our companions-”

How the fuck was he going to while away the next hour and a half? Brian wondered, as he grabbed a rag and wiped his come off the floor. If he wanted the Ukrainian girl to keep cleaning his loft, he’d better not leave it there, even if it did add to the ambiance of the place.

The brunet’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, when Cynthia had arrived with bagels. The measly bite or two of raspberry pastry that he’d consumed at the diner didn’t count. Since there was plenty of time to eat, before his paid companion would arrive, Brian pressed ‘5’ for Thai takeout and ordered one of his favourites, crab curry. The restaurant, he noted wryly, would have his meal there in fifteen minutes. Why the fuck couldn’t Supreme Escorts provide the same kind of rapid service? Rent boys were a dime a dozen, after all.

Precisely ninety minutes later, a bare-chested Brian was tapping the toes of one foot against the floor, waiting for the promised escort to arrive. He’d eaten, showered, checked the stock reports, turned the news on and then immediately off again, and spent a good twenty minutes fretting about whether his bid for the bathhouse would be accepted. He’d barely resisted the temptation to call Theodore to discuss the bid, but stopped himself at the last minute. He didn’t want to look like a neurotic idiot.

The brunet glared at his Crosby wall clock as the minutes dragged by. Finally, at 8:36, a light knocking sounded against metal. He strode over to the door, slid it open, and brusquely greeted the escort, “You’re late.”

“Uh,” the young man stuttered, “the boss told me ninety minutes” - he looked at his wristwatch, a cheap Timex - “and that means I’m ten minutes early.”

“Bullshit,” Brian snapped, “it’s been more than an hour and a half since I talked to the dispatcher at your agency.”

Apparently remembering that he was supposed to please his customer, not argue with him, the escort shrugged. “Sure,” he said, “you’re right. I’m sorry to be late. Can I come in?”

Brian moved out of the doorway, nodding for him to enter. At least the kid had blond hair, he observed, although it was a dirty blond, not the bright gold he’d wanted.

“I’m Sasha,” the boy introduced himself as he stepped over the doorsill. “Wow, this is a nice place,” he continued as he took in his surroundings. “Hey is that a-”

“Shut it,” Brian ordered. He didn’t give a fuck about the kid’s name, and he was irritated by his inane babbling. His voice was too high-pitched and had a strange, whistling atonality. It was nothing like that of the blond he wished were standing in front of him. The stud jerked his chin toward the bedroom. “Up there,” he commanded.

The escort’s expression turned mulish. “Not before I collect my fee,” he asserted.

“Christ,” Brian muttered as he snagged his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. The boy did have a right to be paid for services rendered, even if it was taking forever to get to the ‘rendering’.

The brunet counted out the money into the lad’s open palm, looking him in the eye as he did so. Noticing his eyes were more grey than blue, and that there were fine lines around them, suggesting the ‘boy’ must be at least twenty-five, Brian snorted. _Best match_ , my ass, he thought; any halfway competent escort agency should’ve been able to meet his specifications more closely.

“Now lose the clothes,” the stud ordered, “and get up there. No talking,” he reiterated, when the blond opened his mouth again.

Shutting his gob, the escort complied, climbing the two steps to the bedroom area and stripping, letting his clothes drop to the floor.

Brain sauntered closer, inspecting the lad. His nostrils flared when he was only a few inches away. His scent was completely wrong, with some kind of odd floral tang, maybe from whatever inferior soap he’d used. The brunet shook his head in an effort to dispel the lavender-ish aroma, breathing through his mouth instead of his nose.

Evidently taking that as an invitation, the escort stood on his tiptoes, wrapped his arms around Brian’s neck, and tried to kiss him.

“No kissing,” Brian rebuffed him. “Just do what you’re told and don’t take the initiative.”

The boy rolled his eyes slightly, but then stood stock still and waited for further instructions.

“Good,” Brian said, before running a hand down his torso, stopping to pinch a nipple. Dammit. He wished the lad had a nipple ring; that would make him a more acceptable, albeit fleeting, stand-in for the other blond.

Backing up a few steps, he ordered, “Turn around,” accompanying the words with a circular motion of his forefinger.

The boy immediately obeyed.

As Brian went to shove him face first onto the bed, he noticed a tramp stamp just above the swell of the lad’s bum. Jesus. Could it get any tackier than a rainbow? It’s not as if there was any question that the boy was gay.

Blinking the image away, Brian moved closer so he wouldn’t have to look at the ugly tattoo. He didn’t have to see the kid’s ass, which was way too flat, in order to fit together the pieces of the puzzle.

The brunet reached over to the bedside table and pumped some lube onto his fingers, before inserting one digit into the boy’s hole. Brian’s finger slid in so quickly, it startled him. Not only was his ass flat, it was also exceedingly loose. Even a shaft as large as Brian’s was going to be flailing for purchase in that cavern.

Brian sighed. This was beginning to seem like a lot of bother, but he still wanted to get off. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pushed them down below his hips. He quickly grabbed a condom packet from the handy dish next to the lube, tore it open with his teeth, discarded the wrapper, and unrolled the condom onto his erection - all within a few seconds.

When the lad turned his head to look at him, Brian threaded his hand into the lad’s hair and pushed his face into the duvet. The hair, he noted, was too coarse, nothing like the fine silk he’d been accustomed to.

Positioning his cock at the boy’s entrance, Brian pressed forward. The fit was awkward since the escort was shorter than he’d realised, nearly causing Brian to miss his aim. The stud had a vague thought that he’d be laughing hysterically if he were watching this pitiful attempt at sex. He grunted, squatting down further so he could push in all the way. As he’d feared, the boy’s flaccid arse barely gripped his cock. No point quitting now, however, since he was all suited up, even if this ass ranked as the loosest he’d ever encountered. Doing his best to imagine that it was Justin beneath him, Brian pulled back and surged forward, again and again.

The illusion that it was the other blond he was fucking didn’t hold up for long. Finally, after what must’ve been at least ten minutes of vigorous, yet unsatisfying, activity, Brian came, unloading into the condom. He immediately pulled out, removed the condom, tied it off, and tossed it aside.

That really couldn’t have been any more disappointing, he mused, as he demanded, “Get dressed and get out.”

The escort propped himself up on his elbows before staggering to his feet. “That was great,” he slurred, “best I’ve had all year. Want to go another round?” he asked hopefully. “No charge.”

Brian snorted. “Are you joking? You’d have to pay _me_ to go another round,” he snarked, before adding, “And trust me, you couldn’t afford me.”

The boy pouted as he slowly moved away from the bed and pulled on his clothes. “Are you sure?” he whined, batting his eyes flirtatiously. “I don’t have any other customers tonight.”

The brunet rolled his eyes. “Do you have a hearing problem?” he queried. “Do as I said and get out of here.”

Brian tugged his jeans up over his hips, following along behind the crestfallen lad to making sure he didn’t linger. Once he’d shut the door on the boy, he returned to the bedroom, intent on retrieving a reefer from his toy box so he could put the disappointing experience behind him.

He stopped dead as he reached under the bed, however, dismayed by the massive wet spot on his duvet. Brian hadn’t even realised the boy had come, his loose ass not clamping down on his shaft when he ejaculated. “Fuck,” Brian grumbled. This was the only thing the escort and Justin had in common - they’d both come on his bedding. The stud wistfully recalled how he’d chided Justin for staining his duvet that night, wishing the boy were here now, so he could do it all over again.

After removing two blunts from the toy box - he didn’t think one would be enough - Brian pushed the ruined duvet out of the way, flopped down on the bed, and lit up. What should he do now? He wasn’t at all satisfied by the rent boy’s lacklustre performance. After the longest dry period without fucking since he turned sixteen, he’d expected to go at least a couple rounds with the escort.

As he finished one joint and started on the next, Brian mulled over what he wanted. Part of that was pretty simple - Justin, back in Brian’s bed where the boy belonged. Even if the teenager did turn out to have been negligent in regard to the robbery, the brunet decided he could let the matter drop. He probably shouldn’t have kicked the lad out so peremptorily, but he’d been in shock from having all his hard-earned possessions vanish and, especially, from having his private space violated.

The brunet frowned, concerned that he might be settling for Justin because Babylon no longer felt like a safe haven, thanks to the creep who’d assaulted him in the backroom. He was able to reassure himself, though, that that wasn’t the case. He’d been lusting after Justin ever since the lad had moved out; he just wasn’t willing to admit it before, what with also having to acknowledge that he’d made a mistake and regretted his actions. No matter how much he tricked, he was always up for fucking the lad.

It wasn’t as if he was incapable of fucking other guys, but his standards had slowly, almost imperceptibly, risen since meeting the blond teenager - Justin had become the yardstick by which all others were measured. He snorted. For fuck’s sake, he’d just hired an escort as a Justin substitute, and look what an unmitigated disaster that had been. If he hadn’t been intent on getting off, he probably would have fallen asleep mid-fuck, it was so bad.

The suspicion that he might be turning into a muncher floated through his brain, causing the stud to reach down and cradle his balls in one hand. All good, he thought, sagging back against his pillow and blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling. His nuts were still there, and his shaft was hardening against his wrist. Satisfied that he hadn’t emasculated himself, Brian resolved that he’d just be more selective about tricks in the future.

Trolling for tricks would be a lot more fun, though, if he had the blond to come home to - or, almost equally as good, to go tricking with him. The brat’s enthusiasm for fucking always seemed to inspire greater efforts from the backroom’s habitués. Why deny himself, Justin, and the others that pleasure?

The upshot of his musings, Brian determined, was that the blond had to return to his bed. He might’ve flamed out this afternoon, but he’d do better the next time. He’d just have to strategize carefully beforehand; once he convinced the lad that Brian wanted him for more than just a fuck, it should be pretty much a done deal. There would be no need for him to actually apologise.

The stud fell asleep, a smile on his lips as he planned Operation Twat Retrieval.

 

While Brian was trying to solve the ‘Justin problem,’ the lad in question was gyrating his hips and wiggling his ass for the horny fags at Babylon. He was having trouble losing himself in the music, however, because Dashonte, the deejay, kept playing _In the Navy_ and _Karma Chameleon_ over and over again. He kept subconsciously touching his ears to make sure they weren’t bleeding.

The blond dancer had routines to each of those songs down pat by now which, unfortunately, left him free to dwell on what had happened with Brian that afternoon. Not only was Justin irritated that the older man thought he could have him over for a fuck with a snap of his fingers, he was also frustrated by how ‘everyone’ thought he should quit dancing now that he’d be freelancing on top of everything else. He was especially vexed by the fact that his bestie apparently viewed the matter the same way as Brian. Fueled by his indignation, Justin wasn’t feeling tired at all as eleven o’clock neared, and he thought he probably could handle everything - three jobs, school, and tutoring. People should show a little confidence in him, for Chrissake.

The teenager began to feel less certain of his ability to cope, however, as the next three hours crawled by. His stamina flagged, and by two in the morning, he was barely staying on his feet.

When Dashonte announced over the mic, “Last dance, blokes! Get out there and shake your booty!” and _In the Navy_ blasted through the speaker system for the umpteenth time, Justin could have planted one on the disc jockey in gratitude. He didn’t have to think about the steps, his feet moving by rote, if less energetically than earlier in the night.

The moment the song ended, the teenager lowered himself down from the bar and staggered toward the dressing area cum break room.

“Hey, man, let me give you a hand,” Sven, another go-go boy, offered, slinging an arm around Justin’s back and helping him take the last few steps until he could sink onto a bench near their lockers. “You know,” Sven proposed, “I could give you something to wake you up. Works wonders for me.”

Justin refused with a smile and a shake of his head. “Thanks, I’m fine.” He hid a shudder as he recalled how the other dancer had almost knocked him and Vic over, the night the older man had escorted him to Babylon, keeping a wary eye out for the supposed stalker. No matter how tempting, there was no way he was going to pop pills that would affect him like that.

A few minutes later, having struggled into his clothes, Justin headed for the exit. “Want a ride?” Oscar asked as they crossed paths. “I just need help closing up, and then I could give you a lift.”

Justin gave the bouncer a weary smile. “That’s really nice of you, but I know you don’t live in my direction. Now that it’s been confirmed that there’s no stalker, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Be careful anyway,” Oscar insisted. “There are all sorts of nutjobs out there.”

Mindful of that advice, Justin didn’t take the shortcut down an alley, even though it would have gotten him to Debbie’s a little sooner. He skidded his way home on the icy sidewalks, stumbling into the house ten minutes later and locking the door securely behind himself. Once he reached the staircase, he grabbed hold of the railing, using it to propel himself up the stairs, before caroming off the walls in the corridor and into his room. Too exhausted to undress, the teenager fell facedown on the bed, barely finding the strength to check that his alarm was set for the usual time. He didn’t dare be late for the mandatory calculus session later that morning - fuck knew how Dixon would retaliate if he wasn’t on time. Justin passed out, dreading having to wake up in less than four hours, all so he could make it to St James before eight o’clock on a Saturday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving a review as a present for Karynn’s birthday (today). :D
> 
> In case you’re not aware, we have a poll going on Facebook to help us select the best ship name for Michael and David. You can find the poll in Kinnetik Dreams, the Queer as Folk Fanfiction Community, and the Queer as Folk Fic Club.
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take heed. We’ve written another novella, folks! You may want to split our longest chapter yet into smaller, more easily digestible chunks. :)

Justin ran a hand across the expanse of the tanned back in front of him, kissing the dimple above his lover’s ass. “You good?” he whispered, checking that the other man was still conscious after the long massage he had just given him.

Brian hmmed in contentment.

The blond chuckled warmly, sliding a finger down the taller man’s spine. “Good,” he murmured, kissing the tantalising dimple again. Then, patting the butt in front of him, he prompted his lover, “Ass up, come on.”

Brian stretched his legs, whining a little at the back of his throat. “I don’t think I can move right now,” he disclosed, sounding rather amused at his own predicament.

Justin slid his hands over the globes of his lover’s ass. “Sure you can,” he chided softly, squeezing a handful of soft, plump skin in each hand. “You want to come today, you gotta work for it a little, Bri.”

The brunet wiggled a bit, settling deeper into the mattress underneath them. “Nngh,” he denied, the sound barely audible because of the way his mouth was pressed against the bedding.

The blond patted one of the arse cheeks again. “Come on,” he urged, voice still soft. He meant what he’d said - if Brian wanted to come at all that evening, he was going to have to work for it. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Huffing a little at his lover’s insistent nagging, Brian somehow managed to persuade his mostly liquid muscles to flex and get him up to his knees, presenting his behind to the blond. “Happy?” he mumbled, trying to make his relaxed voice sound as sarcastic as possible.

Justin smiled and ran a teasing finger down Brian’s crack, enjoying the way his lover was on display in front of him. “Good,” he praised as the brunet shivered almost imperceptibly.

“Just get on with it,” Brian said, forcing the words through his hazy brain and onto his tongue. He received another soft pat on the bum for his efforts.

The blond let the fingers of one hand rest over his lover’s entrance, not exerting any kind of friction or pressure, and used his other to open the bedside table drawer and reach in to pull out their bottle of lube.

Brian pressed his ass backwards, seeking any kind of stimulation but not getting it. “Jus,” he breathed.

Justin shushed him, running his fingers down the older man’s crack again. “Soon,” he promised as he watched the pink hole flutter. Brian bit his lip in order to prevent himself from saying anything else. No way in hell was he going to beg.

The blond smirked at the other man’s obvious impatience. It had been a while since Brian last bottomed and he was clearly desperate for it - no matter how much the man might want to deny it. Flicking the lube bottle open, he poured a little bit of the viscous fluid onto his forefinger.

“Ready?” Justin asked teasingly as he ran the tip of the slick digit around Brian’s ring of muscle. The brunet wiggled his arse a little in answer, causing the younger man to laugh. He pressed against the hole lightly. “Good, then push back.”

The older man felt an odd tingle in his lower abdomen at the words, as Justin’s finger simply rested against the tight muscle of his asshole. Pushing back a little experimentally, he was able to increase the pressure, but since the blond wasn’t helping him, nothing else happened.

“Come on, Bri,” Justin prompted. “Push back.”

Brian followed the instruction, pressing back a little harder, feeling the resistance of his muscles give slightly under his young partner’s finger. It wasn’t enough, though, the digit still just a teasing presence. He tried to relax a little more, pushing back again and, finally, the finger slipped inside - forcing a harsh exhale out of Brian.

“That’s good, Brian,” Justin praised him. “Very good. Now move a little, to and fro - fuck yourself.”

The brunet felt a spark of something flash through his spine. “Justin,” he complained breathlessly, his inner muscles squeezing involuntarily around the intruding finger.

His lover ran a calming hand down his back. “Come on, I told you you’d have to work for it.”

Not seeing any other way to get what he wanted, Brian moved forward a couple of inches, before pushing back again, a little harder this time. Justin’s finger disappeared into him, barely brushing against his prostate. “Jus,” he gasped.

“Move,” the blond instructed, voice a little harder now. “Fuck yourself, Brian.”

The older man repeated his movement, sliding off the finger inside of him a couple inches before impaling himself again.

“Again,” Justin instructed, watching his lover’s arse hungrily.

Brian did as he was told, sliding forward and then pressing back, tilting his hips a little to get a better angle. The finger inside of him nudged his prostate, sending tingles of pleasure into his belly. He repeated the motion again and again, slowly building up a rhythm as he fucked himself on Justin’s unmoving digit.

“That’s it,” the blond whispered, completely entranced by the motions of his lover’s hips. “You’re doing so well.”

Brian’s brain barely managed to discern the meaning of the blond’s words, as the haze he had been fighting against ever since Justin finished with the massage enveloped him. He couldn’t think properly as his body moved on autopilot, knees shaking and skin glistening with sweat.

“Fuck,” he breathed, struggling to get the right amount of stimulation from the single finger. “More.”

“More what?” the blond asked, voice raspy.

“Please, more,” Brian begged, not even realising what was leaving his mouth. He’d be horrified if he were in control of his senses.

Justin gently slid his lover off his finger by pushing against his ass with the palm of his hand, shushing him when the man whined at the loss of stimulation. “Two fingers then,” he told Brian, running his fore- and middle fingers around the sphincter, loosening up the muscle.

Brian pushed back reflexively, trying to impale himself again, but the blond stopped him. “Wait,” he chided with an amused chuckle. “I’ll add a bit more lube.”

The brunet ignored him, pushing back. “Nngh,” he whined in complaint when Justin stopped him again.

The younger man sighed. “Okay, have it your way,” he told his lover, allowing him to move back.

Brian gasped at the slight burn of the two fingers sliding inside him, stretching his hole open. Geesh, maybe he should’ve waited for that lube, he thought, pausing to catch his breath. Justin rubbed his back in a comforting gesture. “You okay?”

The brunet nodded. “Yeah,” he grunted, his inner muscles spasming. He was fine; he just needed a moment to breathe through the pain.

His younger lover wasn’t sympathetic, though. “Come on, then,” he patted his ass cheek. “Push back.”

Brian followed the calmly given order before he even knew what was happening, sliding himself fully onto the two digits despite the burn. “Agh,” he panted. “Fuck.”

“Soon,” the blond promised. “Start moving.”

The older man eased off a little before pushing back again, muscles straining and limbs struggling to support himself. He couldn’t stop the whine that escaped his throat.

“Shh,” Justin soothed, using his free hand to slide Brian’s ass forward a little. “Push back.”

The brunet did, only for his partner to nudge him forward once more. He pressed against the digits again and again, getting a comfortable rhythm going. “Justin,” he gasped as he felt the blunt nails inside of him brush against his prostate.

The teenager scissored his fingers a little, still helping Brian move back and forth. “You’re doing good,” he assured his lover, who was grunting and gasping as he continued to push back, fucking himself on his fingers. “Can you go a little faster?”

The brunet picked up his pace instead of saying anything, shoving himself onto the intruding digits faster and harder, tilting his ass to get the right angle. He vaguely heard Justin praise him again, the words translating to gibberish in his foggy brain. He felt a little high.

Soon, Brian’s cock started jolting with every brush against his prostate, his balls drawing up. “I need more,” he pleaded with his lover, knowing he wouldn’t be able to come just from the fingering. “Jus, please.”

The blond kissed his left arse cheek, smiling against his soft skin. “Okay,” he murmured, pulling out his fingers slowly. “Okay, I’ve got you.” Running his hands over the quivering muscles of Brian’s back and ass, he soothed his wrecked lover.

When the brunet’s breathing calmed and the tremors of an unreached ecstasy wound down some, Justin pushed at Brian’s side, turning him over. He arranged the taller man’s legs so they lay spread apart, knees bent.

Leaning across his lover, Justin reached into the bedside table again, pulling out Brian’s slim glass dildo. Slicking up the sleek shaft with plenty of lube, he settled himself between the brunet’s obscenely spread thighs and ran the dildo up and down his crack.

The older man’s hips twitched. “Come on,” he rasped. “Now.”

Justin grinned at his lover, admiring Brian’s sweaty face, pink cheeks, panting lips, and closed eyes. He slid the glass shaft inside a couple of inches, watching for any signs of discomfort. Seeing none, he pushed deeper and deeper, until the hand clutching the base of the dildo settled against Brian’s arse.

The older man moaned loudly.

Kissing his lover’s hip, Justin pulled the slim wand almost out, before shoving it back in forcefully.

“Fuck!” Brian shouted, back arching.

Justin did it again, eliciting another broken scream. Jesus, Brian looked so hot like this - spreadeagled on top of the dark green duvet, tanned skin shining, and tortured sounds escaping his lips. Unable to help himself, the blond slid up his lover’s body - not stopping the movement of the dildo - and kissed Brian’s mouth.

The brunet moaned again, panting against Justin’s lips.

“Look at me,” the younger man whispered, still tirelessly jabbing the glass shaft into the man underneath him.

Brian opened his eyes, his gaze glassy as he tried to focus on Justin. He groaned helplessly.

The blond smiled, the expression undoubtedly lovesick, but he couldn’t care less at that moment. “You close?” he asked, voice like gravel as his own arousal pulsed insistently through his body.

Nodding weakly as a high-pitched whine ripped through his vocal chords, Brian allowed his eyes to slide closed again. Justin let him, pecking one pinkened cheek affectionately before moving back down the other man’s trembling body.

Then, driving the sleek dildo mercilessly into his lover’s prostate, he decided not to tease him any longer and quickly swallowed Brian’s straining member, easily deep-throating him.

The brunet’s body strained towards the ceiling as another loud whine escaped his throat, and then Brian was coming - moaning and shuddering violently under Justin.

The younger man swallowed everything down, his hand still working the dildo in and out, wrenching every last bit of orgasm out of his lover. He stopped his ministrations only when Brian’s muscles all suddenly gave out and the taller man flopped back onto the duvet, unmoving.  

That recollection was a much better way to wake up than chewing on his pillow the brunet stud decided, carefully removing his favourite glass dildo and setting it on the nightstand. He haphazardly wiped himself off with a corner of the sheet before flopping down flat on the mattress.

Glancing toward the window, Brian frowned in puzzlement at how dark it was. There should be some light visible through the blinds, even with the slats closed and the lowering clouds. He scrabbled around for the clock, which he vaguely recalled knocking askew when he was dispensing lube into his hand. “Gotcha,” he mumbled as his fingers closed around the object. He turned it back around so he could see the digital readout, staring in disbelief when 5:42 blinked at him.

What the fuck was he doing up so early on a Saturday? Oh, right, he thought as he was assaulted by memories of the loose-arsed escort from the night before. In an effort to compensate for that piss-poor performance, he’d obviously awakened to - and done his best to reenact - a particularly scorching encounter with Justin.

Brian shugged. Since he’d fallen asleep much earlier than was his wont, the brunet figured he might as well make an early start to his day. Throwing off the covers - those that remained on him after his energetic endeavours - he got up and padded down the stairs to the kitchen. He flicked on a light, not that he really needed it to navigate his way around his sparsely furnished loft, and then switched on the Braun coffee maker.

He grinned as he recalled bribing Cynthia to set up the machine before she’d left the previous afternoon. Brian was, of course, perfectly capable of operating the coffee maker by himself, but it was more fun to rile his blonde secretary than to admit that. His friend had had the last word, however, immediately picking up the phone and charging a box of chocolates - Lindt, this time - to Brian’s AmEx, to be delivered directly to her apartment.

As liquid trickled into the carafe, Brian became aware of another pressing need and hotfooted it back up the stairs to the bathroom. He let out a relieved “Aaah” as he urinated. It seemed to take forever to finish, before he could shake himself dry and wash his hands in the sink.

“Gah!” the brunet stud grunted as he looked at himself in the mirror. His bedhead was much worse than usual; with most of it tufted atop his noggin, it appeared that he’d gotten some sort of weird mohawk do. Cupping water in his hands, Brian raised them to his head and attempted to flatten the recalcitrant hair, but he only succeeded in sending additional spikes shooting out to the side. “Fuck it,” he muttered. He’d style it properly after downing a mug or two of coffee and showering.

Expecting the coffee to have finished perking while he was in the bathroom, Brian was disappointed to to see that droplets were still splashing into the carafe. He didn’t want to wait any longer, so he turned it off and started to remove the glass container to pour a cup - he’d let it finish brewing after that - but then the machine let out a strange gurgle and spit a droplet of brown liquid at him. “Fuck!” he screamed, hastily shoving the carafe back onto the hotplate and glancing down at the reddened spot on his torso. “Bloody coffee makers,” he groused.

Dampening a cloth with cold water, he dabbed at the spot, musing that if it had landed a little further to the right, it would’ve burned off his nipple. He thought he heard a tinkling laugh and a teasing “Drama queen!” but when he glanced around, no one was there. “You’re losing it, Kinney,” he muttered before bellowing at the imaginary voice, “It’s perfectly natural to be concerned about a rogue coffee machine, Cynthia!”

Brian cautiously reached out and turned the coffee maker back on and then took a seat at the kitchen table, where he could observe from a safe distance as it finished percolating. He waited for a good five minutes after it stopped dripping - he did not not want to be attacked again - before stumbling back over to the counter and reaching into the cupboard for his AdStud coffee mug. When he didn’t find it, he figured it must be in the dishwasher, but it wasn’t there either. Shit, he’d have to settle for one of the plain mugs he used for guests. As he opened the cabinet again, however, he noticed his AdStud cup sitting next to the machine with a note propped against it. “Too fucking early for things to be hidden in plain sight,” he mumbled, picking up the note and looking at it through bleary eyes.

‘Boss,’ the note stated in neat, joined-up writing, ‘all ready for consumption. Just add liquid, stir, drink, and you’ll be _sweetened_ in no time.’

“Wiseass,” Brian grunted, peering into the cup, which did appear to contain a sufficient amount of sugar. He stirred as directed, quickly downing the first cup and then preparing another.

The brunet padded over to the window, staring out at the grey skies, which had barely lightened, while he consumed the caffeine and sugar boost. He frowned at his reflection, sliding his hand down his side to pinch at the flesh on his waistline. “Goddammit!” he growled. He was developing a fucking love handle! That settled what he’d be doing this morning - he’d be heading for Ript gym as soon as he’d showered.

 

Justin woke up only a little later than his former lover, the alarm blaring in his ears. Slapping a hand down on the offensive thing to turn it off, he glared through slitted eyes at the stupid Captain Astro sticker that adorned the face of the clock. He groaned as he leveraged his body off the bed, staggering into the shower, where he cleaned himself off cursorily before donning jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, athletic socks, and his sneakers. At least he didn’t have to wear the hated uniform since it was a Saturday, he reflected. Maybe he and Daphne could have a celebratory bonfire at which they burned their fucking uniforms once they’d finally graduated.

The blond lad slung his backpack over one shoulder and stumbled down the stairs, where a smiling Debbie awaited him. “Here, Sunshine, you look like you need this,” she greeted him cheerfully, holding out a large thermos.

“Coffee?” Justin croaked hopefully.

“You betcha,” the redhead said cheerfully. “And here’s some brownies for your breakfast. I just whipped up a batch.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Deb,” the teenager rasped. “Hang onto those till I get my jacket on, would’ya?”

“Sure thing,” she agreed, following him to the entryway. “Uh, Kiddo,” she teased as he struggled with the garment, “you’re putting it on inside out.”

“Fuck,” Justin grunted, finally succeeding in turning the coat right-ways and donning it. He took the container with the sweets from Debbie and stuffed it inside his backpack before accepting the thermos flask. “I wish I was going to the diner with you,” he grumbled, “rather than wasting an hour on the bus and then another hour listening to Dickhead Dixon pontificate about material I already know.”

“A little extra studying won’t hurt you,” she chided. “It’ll make it that much easier for you to ace your final and show up that homophobic prick.”

“Yeah,” the teenager acknowledged, “and I get to spend the morning with Daph. It doesn’t get much better than that.”

“That’s the spirit!” Debbie encouraged him. “I’ll fix you young ’uns a proper breakfast when you get here later this morning. I’m working a short shift so I can get a start on my holiday baking.”

“There won’t be much left after Daphne and I make inroads,” Justin joked.

The redhead chuckled and patted him on the cheek. “No worries, Sunshine. That’s what it’s for. I can always bake more.”

“I’d better get a move on, or I’ll miss the bus,” the teenager commented after a quick glance at the clock. “Later,” he said, leaning over to kiss his surrogate mum on the cheek before darting out the door.

Not ten minutes later, Justin clambered onto the bus, where the muscular, squat, female driver greeted him with a friendly smile. “I don’t recall seeing you on my Saturday run before, lad.”

“Special mandatory session for one of my classes at St James,” the blond replied glumly.

“You know you’ll have to transfer to get there, don’t you?” the woman asked in concern.

Justin took a seat right behind the driver. “Yeah, I know. I take this bus during the week. Hey,” he asked, “if I give you one of my brownies - they’re still warm from the oven - would you wake me up at the transfer point? I don’t think I can keep my eyes open.”

“Keep the brownies for yourself, lad,” the bulked-up woman insisted with a chuckle, her eyes twinkling as she pulled away from the bus stop. “I’ve got a lunchbox full of goodies” - she fondly patted a large, black, metal box - “I’ll be glad to rouse you in any case.”

“Ta,” Justin responded gratefully. Unscrewing the cap from the thermos, he took a couple of swallows of coffee before removing a brownie from the plastic container in his rucksack and cramming it into his mouth. He’d just swallowed down the chewy treat when he fell sound asleep, the flask of coffee cradled in his arms, crumbs dotting his chin and jacket.

The next thing he knew, someone was vigorously shaking his arm, “C’mon lad. It’s time to transfer. Your bus is right behind me. The driver’s getting a mite impatient; he’s only waiting because I paged him and told him I had a passenger for him.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” the blond teen mumbled, blinking his eyes rapidly in an effort to unglue them. Gathering his things, he added, “Thanks so much for convincing him to wait.”

“Ah, no big deal,” the woman replied. “Bloke’s just gnarly in the mornings - don’t take any guff off of him, you hear?”

Justin waved in acknowledgement as he hastened toward the other bus. “Ta,” he gasped at the bus driver as he climbed on.

“Just sit your arse down,” the man grouched. “You’re putting me behind schedule.”

The teenager rolled his eyes as he made his way toward the middle of the vehicle. The fellow clearly didn’t operate on the principle of serving the public that he was there to transport, at least not until some point later in the day, based on what the kindly female driver had said.

The cat nap had done him a world of good, Justin reflected as he sat down. He felt himself becoming fully alert as he swigged more coffee and ate another couple of brownies.

 

When he got out in front of the school twenty minutes later, Justin suddenly worried that the doors to St James would be locked. It was a Saturday, not a weekday, so he wouldn’t be able to have a chinwag with the friendly librarian… Fortunately, when he tried one of the doors, it opened easily under his hand, surprising the teenager. Must be some kind of athletic practice going on, he mused, as he trotted upstairs - the teams practiced at all times of day and in all kinds of weather.

His surmise was proved correct as he neared the calculus classroom, the door to which was propped open. “Do I really hafta be here?” he heard Hobbs whining. “My mates need me on the football field.”

“They can get by without you for a couple of hours,” Dixon tried to pacify him. “It wouldn’t look right if you’re not here for the mandatory session, even though you’re passing the class with flying colours.”

 _Flying colours_ , my ass, Justin snorted to himself as the maths instructor kept talking.

“Headmaster Perkins is breathing down the teachers’ necks,” Dixon elaborated. “He wants everything to be above board until the end of term.”

“Why’s that?” Chris queried sullenly. “I thought-”

He cut off abruptly when Justin appeared in the doorway, one blond eyebrow arched in interest. It would undoubtedly have been smarter to earwig the convo a bit longer, or at least wait outside the classroom until some of the other students arrived, but fuck that. He refused to act like a scared little faggot.

“Taylor!” the teacher barked. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here for the mandatory session,” Justin replied blandly, walking over to his usual desk. “I didn’t want to be late, since I still have a lot to learn.” Like avoiding non-standard solutions and writing ‘ones’ that might be somewhat similar to his ‘sevens,’ he thought.

Dixon curled his lip, sneering, “It’s true you need all the help you can get, Taylor. Sit down and review the problems from the last chapter.”

Justin barely managed to suppress a yawn. He’d already reviewed those problems a few times, especially since he wanted to help Daphne with any difficulties she was having. He nevertheless complied with Dickhead’s demand, removing his textbook from his backpack and flipping it open. He figured the jerk would never notice what lesson he was actually working on, as long as he appeared to be studying.

The teenager tapped his pencil against his teeth and scribbled away, working on a chapter that they wouldn’t cover until well into the spring term. He took a swallow from his thermos, only to hear Dixon clear his throat noisily. “No food or drink during class, Taylor,” the teacher reprimanded him.

Raising his eyes from his worksheet, Justin questioned innocently, “But it’s not class yet, is it, _sir_?” He glanced meaningfully at the grande-sized cup of Starbucks coffee that Hobbs had just raised to his lips.

Dixon’s fingers tightened around the pencil he was holding, until it snapped in two, one piece clattering to the floor. “Put it away before eight o’clock,” the instructor growled, “and don’t spill any of it, or you’ll be spending the rest of the morning mopping the floor.”

He’d have to miss his mouth entirely and upend the flask to spill any of it, the lad mused, since he was swigging directly from the thermos. Justin stifled a laugh at the sour expression on Dixon’s face, gratified to have so neatly flummoxed the man. He returned to solving problems, amused when the instructor suggested, “You might as well dig out your homework and have at it as well, Chris.”

“What?” the athlete protested. “I already know the stuff backwards and forwards - flying colours, you said.”

“It can’t hurt to review,” Dixon insisted, his tone mildly censuring. “You wouldn’t want a poo-” the man paused and altered the pronunciation, “ _pupil_ like Taylor to show you up.”

Fucker, Justin wordlessly cursed the homophobic prick, who’d cleverly insulted him for being a ‘poofter’ without actually uttering the slur. He attempted to appear relaxed, not wanting to give either Dixon or Hobbs the satisfaction of seeing how furious he was.

“As if!” Chris guffawed. “No way could that _pupil_ ,” he imitated the teacher’s intonation, “outdo a stud like me, in any way, shape, or form.”

Christ, what had he ever seen in the blowhard? Justin wondered. The guy couldn’t hold a candle to a real stud like Brian, in either brains or beauty. Given Hobbs’ build, he suspected what looks he had would quickly evaporate; once the jock no longer spent hours every day on the athletic field, he’d likely run to fat.

While Justin was giving himself a mental kick in the arse for ever being attracted to the jock, a couple more students shuffled into the classroom, looking like they’d just rolled out of bed. “Ms Brown,” Dixon recommended in a dry tone, “if you _need to go_ , you’d better do so now. You won’t be excused while class is in session.”

The full-bladdered girl directed a pitiful gaze at the instructor, but when his expression remained stern, she dumped her rucksack next to her desk and shuffled back out of the classroom.

“Mr Hudson,” the teacher addressed the other student, “you’d better crack your book open, for what I suspect may be the first time this semester, considering your consistently poor results.”

“Dickhead,” Justin heard the boy mutter as he passed him on his way to the back of the classroom.

As the rest of his classmates slowly filtered in, Justin began to worry that something had happened to Daphne. Dixon would definitely hold it against his friend if she missed the mandatory session. Turning up late wouldn’t be much better.

He stifled a sigh when Vanna Farley, the girl Dixon thought should consider a career as a beautician, since she’d never make a mathematician, claimed the desk to his right. She was also in physics with him, Daph, and Sydney, and had been pestering him to help her ever since she overheard the three of them talking about tutoring the day of the snowstorm. Justin had tried to rebuff her politely, but so far without any success.

A red-faced Daphne finally dashed through the door at three minutes before the hour, Sydney and another student right behind her. “I overslept,” she griped as she sagged into her chair. “Didn’t hear the alarm, and then I missed the first bus. Thought I was gonna be late, which would’ve been a disaster.”

When Justin opened his mouth to commiserate with his bestie, he was distracted by the cheerleader demanding, “Shift over. Taylor’s _my_ tutor.”

The lad glanced to his right, hiding a grin when he saw that Sydney was evicting the Farley muppet. From the glimpse he’d had of Vanna’s midterm, it looked like she hadn’t solved a single one of the problems; Justin had no idea how to help someone who was failing so spectacularly and was grateful that the pom-pom girl had saved him from further entreaties.

The two blondes exchanged sly smiles as Vanna got up and reluctantly moved forward so that she was sitting in front of Syd, directly under Dixon’s jaundiced eye. As the cheerleader sat down, Hobbs’ glowering visage confronted Justin; the jock was clearly pissed off that his girlfriend wasn’t sitting next to him.

“Ms Thompson,” the instructor cautioned, “you’d do better to take your usual place next to Mr Hobbs. Unlike Mr Taylor, he has a thorough grasp of the subject matter.”

Sydney insouciantly flipped her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. “I’d rather my parents not hear that I’m _technically failing_ calculus, Mr Dixon, so I’ll stay right where I am, ta.”

“Your funer- that is, choice,” the maths teacher gritted out. “Just don’t come asking me for another chance after the final.”

“I won’t need to,” the cheerleader asserted confidently, while the other students tittered at the way she’d made Dickhead Dixon back down.

“Brass balls,” Daphne murmured in awe.

Justin nodded in agreement. He wished he could put Dixon in his place like that but, unlike Sydney, his parents wouldn’t back him up. He’d just have to needle the homophobic bastard by getting the highest score on the final, as he had on every other exam this semester, he decided.

Dixon began calling roll, and had just noted Mr Ziegler as present, when another student hastened into the classroom. “Since you didn’t show me the courtesy of being on time, Mr Antonich,” the instructor stated coolly, “I’m marking you as absent.”

“But, Mr Dixon,” the boy spluttered, “It’s not even two minutes past-”

“Your peers arrived on time,” Dixon interrupted. “There’s no reason you couldn’t have done the same, Mr Antonich. I’m giving up my Saturday morning to drum maths into you ungrateful, boneheaded louts; I expect appreciation, which is sadly lacking in your case, in return for my kindness. You can still benefit from my instruction, however, so I suggest you take a seat.”

“Thank fuck I wasn’t late,” Daph hissed, shooting a sympathetic look at the angry boy as he stomped to the back of the classroom.

“That would’ve nixed your Christmas bonus for sure,” Justin whispered back.

For the next thirty-five minutes, Dixon droned on about basic equations and derivatives. Justin would have been bored stiff, if he weren’t surreptitiously working on more advanced problems and doodling caricatures in the margins of his notebook - Hobbs brown-nosing Dixon; the full-bladdered girl squirming in her seat; Sydney battering Chris with her pom-poms; Dixon dressed in Severus Snape’s robes, a pinched look on his face as he handed Daphne a test with 91% written in red ink at the top.

Justin noted that even the students who really wanted to improve were struggling to pay attention, Dixon’s monotone acting as a soporific. When his best friend’s elbow started to slide off her desk, he reached out and propped her up before her head connected with the desk. Daphne glanced at him appreciatively from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, straightening up in her chair and blinking furiously in an attempt to become more alert.

“Now for a pop quiz,” the schoolteacher announced, a malicious note in his voice, “to see if you’ve actually absorbed anything. I was underwhelmed by your efforts on yesterday’s exam, so a revision is needed. Yes, Ms Watson?” he asked impatiently when the ginger raised her hand.

“Um, could we go over that test, Mr Dixon?” the girl requested timidly. “That would be a big-”

“There’s no point,” the maths teacher rudely interjected. “All of you are sadly lacking in the basics, which you should have had down pat by the end of the second week of school.”

Justin pondered that a review of the basics might be a good idea, for most of the students anyway… provided the person imparting the information had any clue how to make it relatable to and interesting for his audience. Dixon made it a habit to regurgitate information from the textbook, without further explanation.

“No one is to leave,” Dixon continued his tirade, “until I have graded all the quizzes. Bring your test to me once you have finished and then return to your seat. Anyone who earns less than sixty-five percent will spend the next week in detention, studying hard so they can pass the final.”

Groans and mutterings of “Dickhead” and “Fucker” came from all corners of the room.

Dixon rapped his knuckles on his desk. “Silence!” he commanded.

The class slowly came to order, although quite a few students still glared at the instructor balefully. For all that he couldn’t stand the teacher’s blatant homophobia, Justin was startled to find that he kind of agreed with the man. Dixon’s teaching methods were generally deplorable, _but_ he was forsaking his free time on a Saturday to teach them maths. He really did remind the blond boy of Professor Snape, acerbic and somewhat of a bully, but mainly strict, so that the students would absorb the subject matter and survive at university.

“Close your books and stow them in your satchels,” Dixon ordered, waiting until the pupils had complied before passing out the quizzes.

Justin accepted the short stack of tests from the student in front of him, taking one and passing the rest back. He glanced at the questions and almost snorted at how simple they were. He took his time solving the problems, using the computer writing he was still practicing to carefully notate the solutions. When he came to the last item, which was similar to a problem on a recent test, he couldn’t resist solving it in two ways, printing ‘non-standard solution’ beneath one and ‘standard solution’ beneath the other. Dickhead would probably dock him one or two points for being so cheeky, but the boy didn’t care; he was fed up with kowtowing to the pillock.

Only ten minutes had elapsed when Justin stood up and carried his test to the front of the classroom. He was startled to see that Chris had already handed his quiz to Dixon and was strolling back to his desk, a complacent expression on his face. Was the jock smarter than he’d given him credit for? Justin wondered.

He was soon disabused of that notion, when he saw all the blank spaces on Hobbs’ test. Maybe Chris had written the solutions in an invisible ink that only Dixon could read, he thought contemptuously, watching as the teacher scrawled a C+ at the top of the test.

The instructor started when he realised Justin was standing in front of him. “Sit down, Taylor!” he barked, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he ground his teeth. Dixon glared at the teen and snatched the quiz from his hand, shooing the student back toward his desk.

Justin smirked as he resumed his seat. Served Dickhead right to be caught redhanded in assigning a passing grade on the jock’s mostly blank test. Maybe Dixon could jerk off on the quiz, he mused sardonically, to reveal the _hidden_ answers.

The teenager considered retrieving his notebook from his backpack and capturing that image. He’d better not though - Dixon might accuse him of sharing crib notes with Daph so she could do better on the test. Justin’s lips curved upward at the thought of how his bestie was going to surprise Dickhead with a steadily improving grasp of the subject matter. For an educator, he seemed strangely dissatisfied when his pupils demonstrated that they were _learning_ ; he apparently preferred to berate them for their pathetic, insufficient exertions.

Justin started to get antsy as the minute hand on the wall clock inched closer to nine o’clock. If he and Daphne weren’t outside at ten minutes past nine, they’d miss the bus and would have to wait an hour and a half for the next one.

At nine on the dot, one of the other students finally approached Dixon’s desk to turn in his quiz, his rucksack dangling from one hand. He placed the test in front of the instructor and loped toward the door. “Where do you think you’re going, Mr Ziegler?” Dixon reprimanded him.

“My dad’s picking me up. We’re going-” the boy tried to explain.

“Regardless of what you and your dad have planned,” the teacher mocked, “you’d better head to the ER instead. You need your ears checked since you didn’t understand my instructions.”

Ziegler mutinously took another step toward the door.

“If you leave now, I’ll mark you as absent and your test as incomplete - which means an F grade,” Dixon threatened, picking up his red pen and placing the nib at the top of the quiz.

“Fine. I’ll stay,” the boy grumbled, looking defeated as he sat back down.

Three more minutes elapsed before four more students turned in their completed quizzes and resumed their seats. Justin glanced at Daphne, who was still working on her test, her forehead creased in concentration. Oh, well, he thought, resigned to missing the 9:10 bus - they could always hoof it to a caff on the bus route and have a bite to eat while they waited for the next one.

The other pupils gradually finished the test, trickling up to Dixon to hand them over. Daphne was the last to turn hers in, right behind Sydney. “You should’ve sat next to Mr Hobbs,” Dixon snidely remarked as he accepted the test from the cheerleader. “Some of his smarts might have transferred to you by osmosis.”

The pom-pom girl cocked her head at the teacher. “I’d never consider engaging in such a bizarre form of osmosis,” she challenged, “unless I wanted to flunk, that is.” She ambled back to her chair, a superior smile on her face, giving Justin a high five as she sat back down.

Dixon switched to glaring at Daphne, whose hand shook as she handed him her quiz. She scurried back to her desk, smiling weakly at Justin as she slumped in her seat.

“Okay?” the lad whispered to his bestie.

She nodded, her smile growing. “I think I solved them all correctly, mostly anyway.”

Justin gave her a congratulatory grin. The other students began fidgeting and chattering as Dixon scrutinized the exams, slashing at each one with his red pen. “Silence!” the instructor thundered. “You’re not to talk until I’ve finished grading.”

Twelve excruciating minutes later, Dixon set aside his pen, the tests in two piles in front of him. He picked up the slightly thinner pile and began reading off names - one by one - concluding with, “Jessica Watson. Those whose names I’ve just mentioned,” the maths teacher pronounced, “are to report to detention on Monday afternoon for an extra hour of study.”

“Nooo,” the girl with bladder issues moaned, jiggling in her seat. “I can’t. I-”

“If you want to have a prayer of passing this class, you most certainly can,” Dixon rebuked. “You’re failing the class, Ms Brown, and you won’t be continuing next semester if you don’t bring up your grade.”

“Can I go now?” the girl begged, a pained look on her face.

“Yes,” Dixon granted permission. As the girl dashed for the door, he added, “I suggest you empty your bladder before detention, Ms Brown. You won’t be allowed to leave during that hour.”

Whether Brown heard him was debatable in Justin’s opinion. She’d looked absolutely frantic in her rush to reach the loo.

“Before you ask,” Dixon addressed the rest of the students, “I’ll be returning your quizzes and yesterday’s tests on Monday morning.”

“What I was going to ask,” an anonymous student quipped from the back of the room, “is whether we can leave now.”

Dixon glowered in the direction the voice had come from. “Since every one of you who props up the back wall,” he commented tartly, “scored under sixty-five percent and will be a ‘detainee’ for the coming week, you _should_ be eager to spend every possible minute studying.”

Someone on the opposite side of the room whistled, “Not for a single second under you, Dickhead.”

The students erupted in laughter, Justin joining in with a horrified chuckle of his own.

“Scram!” Dixon yelled, his face purpling. “You ungrateful brats!”

The giggling mass of students got jammed in the doorway as they all tried to escape at once. Justin, Daphne, and Sydney hung back slightly, waiting for the blockage to clear. “Thanks for the help, Taylor,” Syd expressed her appreciation, smiling almost shyly at her tutor.

“Te gratissimum,” the lad responded, remembering how oddly proud of his Latin competency the cheerleader had been.

“You sound so sexy when you speak Latin,” Sydney sighed. “It’s really too bad you bat for the other side.”

“I know, right?” Daphne seconded the pom-pom girl. “Jus would be, like, the perfect lover.”

His face crimsoning, the lad in question didn’t say anything. For the first time, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into, offering to tutor both of them on the coming Wednesday evening. Daphne already outgunned him much of the time, so he could only imagine the double-barrelled trouble he’d be in now.

All three of them did their best to ignore the disgruntled muttering from Dixon’s table, the only distinguishable word being _castration_.

Justin couldn’t keep himself from flinching. The homophobic bastard probably wished all gays would be ‘fixed’ via chemical castration.

“Forget Dickhead,” Sydney advised, giving the lad a friendly bump with her shoulder. “He’s just a closeted queer, I bet.”

“Yuck!” Justin criticised, “I don’t want _him_ on _my_ team.”

That sent the trio into a fresh spate of giggles as they finally made it out of the classroom.

“Say hi to Harry for me, would’ya?” the cheerleader requested, giving them a jaunty wave in farewell. “I’m looking forward to seeing him on Wednesday.”

“Who the fuck’s Harry? Another fag?” the best friends heard Chris growl as he waylaid his girlfriend.

“Um, do you think we should intervene?” Daphne queried, casting a concerned look at the jock, who’d apparently been lurking outside the door.

“Nah,” Justin dissented. “Syd could handle Hobbs with both hands tied behind her back.”

“She is fierce,” Daphne acknowledged as they trotted down the stairs. “Maybe I’ve misjudged her; she was pretty congenial towards you today. I need to see how she behaves from here on, though, before I can give her the Chanders seal of approval.”

“I’ll proceed with extreme caution until then,” the lad half-joked. Given his own reservations about the cheerleader, he really would think twice about helping Sydney in the future if Daphne concluded she was untrustworthy.

As Justin held open the door for his friend so she could exit the school building first, he stared in amazement at the bus turning into the stop for St James. He tugged on Daphne’s coat, urging, “Let’s book! I can’t believe we haven’t missed the bus.”

 

While Justin was suffering in calculus, Brian arrived for an early workout at Ript. The first person he saw as he headed for the lockers to get changed was David, who was performing a series of dips on the parallel bars. The chiropractor’s chest, shoulder, and arm muscles rippled as he almost lazily lowered himself and then lifted back up again. Show-off, Brian thought as he watched Dr Dave complete a few more reps, before he switched to the chin-up bar, rising and sinking with as little effort as he’d shown on the parallel bars.

Brian made a mental note to avoid those apparatuses until David had left the gym. His form wasn’t as good as the other man’s, and he sure as fuck didn’t want the doc giving him tips on how to improve. It was damned annoying that the much older man didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. Rooting around in his exercise bag in the locker room, Brian pulled out his Nike trainers and athletic socks, a pair of shorts, and a sleeveless tee. He was glad he’d chosen a baggy t-shirt instead of the fitted one he usually wore - that would disguise the fat deposits at his waistline. The weight-conscious stud shuddered at the notion of having anyone near him when he finally stood on the gym’s scales after his workout; he normally crowed about how many ounces he’d lost, but this time he’d have to slink away. He must’ve gained at least eight or nine ounces, though he should still be well shy of an extra pound.

Starting his own advertising agency was horribly time-consuming, and most of his activity had been far too sedentary. He’d schedule a daily visit to the gym from now on, Brian determined. Heck, he might as well take Ted and Cynthia with him at lunchtime - Ted wouldn’t want to turn pudgy with a beau like the hunky professor, and Cynthia would have the time of her life drooling over all the fit men.

His gym bag and street clothes stored in a locker, Brian sauntered back into the main room and toward the currently unoccupied row of treadmills, climbing onto the one that would provide the best view of the other early-morning exercisers as well as pedestrians strolling by on the sidewalk. The stud sighed, missing his burgled Ironman treadmill - it would be much easier for him to stay fit if he could hop on that machine in the morning. What with funneling most of his available funds into his start-up, however, he wouldn’t be able to justify the outlay for new exercise equipment for a while.

Since he hadn’t run in over two weeks, Brian set the incline to just three percent and the speed at a modest four miles per hour. He wanted to warm up gradually, not make a laughingstock of himself by wheezing like an old man. Nevertheless, after a mere twenty minutes, with no change to the speed or incline, Brian was panting, sweat beading his brow.

“Are you okay, Bri?” a lilting voice inquired. “You look kinda feverish.” The expression of concern was followed by a chuckle.

Brian wrenched his head to the side, to be confronted by Emmett’s grinning visage, as the man pranced along on the neighbouring treadmill. “Of course… I look… fever… ish,” he gasped out, a couple syllables at a time. “I am… exercis… ing.” Heaving for breath, he belatedly demanded, “And don’t… call me… Bri.”

“Oh, pooh.” The flamboyant queen flapped a hand at him as he peered at the settings on Brian’s treadmill. “You’re moving at half my speed, _Bri_ ,” he asserted smugly, “but you sound like Daisy, my Aunt Lula’s prize-winning sow, when she’d rush to the trough at feeding time.”

Brian wasn’t sure what affronted him more - that the flamboyant queen, who rarely did a lick of _real_ exercise, was outperforming him, or that he’d just been compared to a _pig_. He was so stunned by his predicament that he stopped running and simply gaped at the taller man. Since he was no longer moving, the conveyor belt carried him to the end of the machine and dumped him off. He almost landed on his keister, only saving himself by windmilling his arms and stumbling a few ungainly steps.

His eyes dancing with merriment as he watched Brian’s less than graceful departure from the treadmill, Em continued speaking. “Daisy’s trough was maybe,” he calculated, “five yards away from where she liked to wallow in the mud. Of course, she was preggers most of the time - she farrowed one sought-after litter after another - so that was bound to slow her down some.”

The nonplussed stud’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He must look like a fucking goldfish, he mused. In the recesses of his brain, a neuron jabbered about how excited a certain blond would be to learn the word _farrow_ , if the kid didn’t already know it, despite being raised in the city rather than on a farm. Brian hadn’t heard it before, although he could guess the meaning from the context; personally, he’d prefer to have never become acquainted with the term for a sow giving birth.

“Brian?” someone else questioned, sounding worried. “You don’t look so hot. Why don’t you sit down on the hack squat machine? No one’s using it right now.”

Recognising Dr Dave’s voice, Brian turned toward the older man to stress that he was _always_ hot, thank you very much, but then Emmett let out a shriek.

“Oh, sweetie!” he husked dramatically, leaving his treadmill with a sprightly hop. “I wouldn’t have teased you, if I’d known you’re actually unwell. Whatever are you doing at the gym? You should be home in bed.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not sick,” Brian grated through clenched teeth. Casting about for something to take the spotlight off himself, he focused on Emmett’s garish ensemble - a t-shirt with psychedelic swirls of purple and pink accompanied by bright orange shorts. “What the fuck are you wearing, Honeycutt?” he blurted.

“Isn’t it fabulous?” the queen shrilled, turning in a circle so the other men could get the full effect. “We just got these outfits in at Torso.”

“No wonder I never set foot in there,” Brian snarked.

Em waved a dismissive hand at him, claiming to David, “No need for us to worry. _Bri’s_ in fine fettle, other than being fashion challenged, anyhow.”

The chiropractor dubiously eyed the queen’s colourful garb but forbore criticism. Instead, he gestured toward the free weights. “I was just about to start my bench press routine. You guys want to take turns spotting each other?”

“Erm,” Emmett quibbled, “I’ve just started my morning jog, so I’ll pass.”

“Morning jog,” Brian snorted. “Since when, Honeycutt?”

“Whenever I can find-” Emmett abruptly stopped talking, his eyes acquiring an acquisitive gleam as a stocky man with a greying buzz cut entered the gym, a navy overcoat over one arm and a burgundy scarf draped around his neck.

Something about the man tickled at Brian’s mind, but he couldn’t place him. The fellow did fill out his suit impressively - a Rubinacci if he wasn’t mistaken - but he was too old for Brian, with a good five or six years on David.

“That is a fine-looking specimen,” Dr Dave concurred with Em’s unvoiced opinion.

“I’ll just go introduce myself,” Emmett informed them. “Toodles, boys.”

Brian grinned as he watched his friend swish his way over to the newcomer. It looked like the tall queen was about to make another conquest.  Or not, he thought as the bloke glanced in their direction and it clicked where he’d see that overcoat, just yesterday in fact. It was the marine who, at the behest of his boyfriend, had rescued him from the ‘wouldn’t take no for an answer,’ importunate trick. This was the first time Brian had seen the marine without his much younger, strawberry blond partner, so it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t immediately recognised him.

The marine gave Brian a barely noticeable nod, as he reached out to accept the hand that Emmett had extended. They spoke briefly before Em shrugged philosophically and led him over to the counter, exchanging a few words with George, one of the owners of the gym. It looked like the man was inquiring about a membership, so Brian figured he’d be seeing him again.

For the first time since the incident at Babylon, remembering it didn’t engender an urgent need in Brian to leave and lick his wounds in private. He was happy about the change in his own attitude and took it as proof that he was finally getting over the assault. With a congenial smile, he informed David, “I’m up for a round of weightlifting. How much do you bench?”

“I’m transitioning to a more advanced load, or I would be, if I could just get past 165 pounds,” Dr Dave replied ruefully. “It’s tough trying to keep up with all those young, brawny football and ice hockey players. They won’t have anything to do with a chiropractor who can’t manhandle them, if it’s necessary.”

Christ, Brian mused in admiration, the doc must be lifting more than his body weight, since David was about an inch and a half shorter than him and - as much as it galled him to admit it - even more fit. He’d have to come up with some excuse when it was his turn to bench; he didn’t want to look like an utter tool in front of the doc.

Since he couldn’t compete with David’s prowess - he wasn’t about to state how much less he lifted - Brian jested, “You don’t get enough practice tossing Mikey around?”

“He’s all of 140 pounds soaking wet,” David chuckled, “so that’d be a no. I could bench press him all night long and come no closer to my goal.”

Brian’s thoughts veered to another lightweight, one he planned on benching as soon as he could engineer an opportunity. To his horror, his dick plumped up in his shorts - Brian didn’t want David to think he was interested in him, for Chrissake, so he hastily redirected his thoughts to an image of the munchers having sex. His burgeoning erection immediately wilted.

A few minutes later, while he was spotting the doc, who was on his third rep at 160 pounds - the guy managed Brian’s body weight with relative ease - the adman remarked, “Thanks, by the way, for the tip about the bathhouse. I’m looking into it as a possible venue for my agency.”

David apparently saw right through him, pausing before beginning the next rep to chide, “There’s no way you’re not panting after that property, Kinney. You don’t need to worry, though; I’m not going to say a word to anyone, not even Michael. He wouldn’t be able to resist sharing the news with Em, and probably the girls, and from there it would spread like wildfire through Pittsburgh’s queer network.” The chiropractor completed two more reps before halting again. “No thanks are necessary, anyway, not from you. I might never have gotten back together with my Honeybun if you hadn’t clued me in as to what I was doing wrong, as well as steering me toward what he really wanted for a birthday present. Michael’s just the most perfect guy for me,” he gushed. “Button nose, delicate ears, soft brown eyes…”

Brian winced at the sickening, lesbianic pet name - that one seemed to be a favourite - and stopped listening altogether as Dr Dave waxed enthusiastic about his childhood friend’s attributes. He did not want to hear about Mikey’s chest hair or his cute cock. Who the fuck called a cock ‘cute’ anyhow? A guy’s dick should be anything but cute.

Taking into account how enraptured Michael and David were with each other - at Woody’s on Thursday night, his friend had talked his ear off about his wonderful ‘honeypie’ - he couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t seen Michael hit on Ben on Friday evening, he probably wouldn’t believe it had happened. Mikey had a hot bloke of his own, one who was head over heels for him. The whole thing didn’t make sense to Brian; he was certain Michael didn’t want to lose his first real boyfriend and, on top of that, he’d never known Michael be be so cruel to a close friend.

Dr Dave’s voice startled Brian from his musings. “You want to take a turn?”

“Uh, I think I’m going to wait till later.” The younger man scrambled for the excuse he’d forgotten to manufacture. “I was barely on the treadmill for any time at all when my phone buzzed” - a white lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, Brian figured - “so I want to finish my run first.”

“Good.” David smiled gratefully at him. “In that case, I’ll put off fighting past the 165-pound barrier and go relax in the sauna instead.”

Brian alternately walked and jogged on the treadmill for the next hour, forcing himself to keep going, even though he’d much rather head home for a siesta. Then, after making sure no one was in the vicinity of the scales, he shambled in that direction and stepped on. “Fuck, no,” he groaned when 161.4 blinked at him in large red numbers. He’d gained _more_ than a pound, which was absolutely unheard of. Taking a deep breath, the brunet stud trudged back to the treadmill and climbed on again, determined to work off all that horrid _fat_.

 

Like Brian, who was slaving away on the treadmill, Justin was panting when he reached the bus in front of St James and clambered aboard, Daphne right behind him. The out-of-breath teen flashed his bus pass at the driver, puffing, “Did I misread the Saturday schedule? I thought the bus was due at 9:10 and was sure we’d missed it.”

As Daphne fed money into the fare box, the man replied, “No, you had it right. The 9:10 bus had a broken axle, though, and it took the Port Authority a while to get a replacement vehicle underway. When I pulled up to the stop to collect the passengers from the broken-down bus, my colleague was fit to be tied. The bloke’s not very sociable at any time of day, but he’s an absolute bear in the morning. I thought the riders were going to lynch him, given the way he was barking at them. Last I saw of the bear,” the man chuckled as he navigated away from the curb, “he was turning the air blue while he waited to be towed to the station.”

From the description of the stranded driver, Justin suspected it was the same one whose bus he’d transferred to earlier that morning. The reference to him being a ‘bear’ amused the lad, as he imagined how tricks would react to Mr Grumpy’s attempts at seduction.

“What’s so funny?” Daph quizzed once they reached the back of the bus and found two empty seats.

“Just the play on _bear_ ,” Justin giggled. “I couldn’t help thinking about how much trouble that grumpy driver would have scoring on Liberty Avenue.”

Her eyes sparkling with avid curiosity, Daphne probed, “Speaking of the avenue, specifically the diner, what’s going on between Sydney and Harry? Did she take a shine to him or something?”

“More like they were instantly attracted to each other,” the blond boy revealed. “Harry delivered a plate of fries for us to nosh on during the impromptu tutoring session. The moment they laid eyes on each other, it was _kaboom!_ ”

“Sounds more like insta-lust than a real attraction,” Daph muttered, a hint of jealousy in her voice.

“Uh...” Justin flailed around for something to say, wishing Sydney hadn’t asked him to pass on her greeting to Harry.

“It’s like I told you,” the girl despaired. “It’s all about big boobs, which the pom-pom girl has in spades!”

“Uh…” the blond lad repeated. He did _not_ want to have another discussion about mammary glands. Why was it that he ended up talking about tits with straight people? “I, uh, don’t think he was looking at Sydney’s chest,” he offered weakly. “They just gazed into each other’s eyes for God knows how long - you know, like Brian and I did when he approached me under that lamppost.”

“Oh, please.” His bestie rolled her eyes. “You and Brian were totally checking each other out - from head to toe.”

“Well, yeah,” Justin admitted, “but we weren’t staring at each other’s package the whole time.”

“That’s just because they were hidden underneath layers of denim and underwear,” Daphne insisted, waving a hand toward his crotch to emphasise the point.

The boy flushed, remembering how, the morning after, he’d snagged Brian’s jockstrap from the bed and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans, right before Michael hustled him out of the loft.

“Sydney’s gazongas, however,” his friend complained, “are, like, out to here.” She extended her hands in front of her chest, until she touched the seat in front of her. “There’s no way to disguise them.”

Justin couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Drama queen much?” he teased.

“I just wish the cute guys would look at me,” Daphne grouched, “instead of just the girls with big knockers.”

“Ehm,” the lad squirmed in embarrassment, “you like Harry?”

“Huh?” Daph stared at him in astonishment. “Whatever gave you that idea, Jus?”

Perplexed, Justin threw his hands up in the air. Girls, who could possibly understand them?

For the next ten minutes Daphne ribbed him for thinking she was sweet on Harry. “I mean, he’s a good guy, Jus, but there’s no connection between us.” She playfully threatened, “Maybe I should tell Harry how you wanted to set us up.”

The lad huffed - as if he’d ever entertained such a notion - but didn’t say anything. At least they were off the topic of boobs, he thought in relief. Ten minutes later, he put a halt to her increasingly ridiculous rambling, announcing, “This is where we transfer,” after tugging on the yellow cord.

It was freezing cold outside, causing the two friends to stamp their feet and clap their mittened hands together in an attempt to warm up as they waited for the next bus. A slanting, icy rain, mixed with snowflakes, began to fall, adding to their misery.

Daphne tucked her hands into her armpits, glancing at the shivering blond lad in concern. “You need a real winter coat,” she remarked, “something with insulation that will also repel water. You’re going to get soaked through if we’re out here much longer.”

“It’s on my shopping list,” he replied, teeth chattering. “Fucking thing’s a mile long, though, so a better coat will probably have to wait.”

Frowning at him, Daphne criticised, “Don’t be an idiot, Jus. Flu season has just started - what are you go to do if you get sick, huh? Paying Brian back a day or two earlier shouldn’t come at the cost of your health.”

Justin didn’t want his bestie to know how many things he needed - a winter coat, gloves, and boots; a new pair of sneakers to replace the holey ones; some underwear that actually looked sexy, which would bring in bigger tips when he danced - the list went on and on. He also needed to replenish his art supplies and stop by the pharmacy to refill his prescriptions. He couldn’t  take the risk of going a single day without his pills; otherwise, he’d be sneezing constantly, his sinuses would swell up, and his face would go all blotchy red.

Daphne was right, though, that he couldn’t afford to get sick, so he begrudgingly allowed, “Em has been making noises about a shopping trip. I’ll check at Second Hand Job when we’re out; Marvella might have something that won’t cost me an arm and a leg.”

“You could always spare a pound of flesh from your tush,” the girl joked.

Placing his hands protectively over the round globes, Justin glared at his bestie. “My booty is not on offer, Shylock. It’s perfect just the way it is.”

Daphne giggled. “Damn. I was hoping I could use it for my breast augmentation once I saved up for it.”

Justin eyed his friend warily. “Uh, I thought you’d decided against that, Daph…”

“Gotcha!” his friend crowed triumphantly as their bus arrived.

The blond was left speechless. He’d have to come up with something good to get even with Daphne.

His friend dozed off, her head resting on Justin’s shoulder during the ride to Liberty Avenue. Surprisingly alert in spite of the lack of sleep, Justin scritched away with his pencil on his sketchpad. He glanced occasionally at his bestie, wanting to capture the soft, trusting expression on her face, her fringe covering one eye. He’d add himself to the drawing later. Unless he had a photo to work from, he found self-portraits challenging; he thought it might suffice, though, if he looked in the mirror while he sketched himself.

Noting they were approaching the stop nearest Deb’s house, he gently shook the girl awake.

“Go ’way, mum,” the girl mumbled, burrowing in against Justin.

This was almost too perfect an opportunity, the lad thought, an impish grin stealing across his countenance. Doing his best to replicate Mrs Chanders’ officious tones, he pitched his voice higher than usual and barked, “Get your rear out of bed, young lady! No lazing abed - maths awaits!”

“What! I’m gonna be late!” Daphne screeched, jerking up in her seat before looking around in befuddlement. “You- you-” she spluttered at Justin as she recognised where she was, slapping the blond’s arm.

“Gotcha!” he managed to spit out between giggles.

Still glowering at her grinning friend as they disembarked, Daph asked, “What time is it anyway?”

“You could look at the Cartier wristwatch your parents got you for your sweet sixteen,” Justin suggested.

“Hmm… no,” Daphne objected. “I don’t want to expose even a sliver of skin to the icy air. Besides,” she pouted, “your old Timex is much more reliable.”

Justin snorted, “That’s only because you dropped yours into the swimming pool when you were ogling Glenn.”

“It was an accident!” the girl squawked.

“Uh-huh.” The blond boy cocked his head at her knowingly.

“It was!” she reiterated vehemently. “And, well, I thought the tosser would catch it before it hit the water.” She pouted some more. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out it wasn’t waterproof; I haven’t dared tell my folks I was so careless with such an expensive present.”

“Why haven’t you taken it to the jeweler’s to get it repaired?” Justin wondered.

“My mum’s too eagle-eyed,” Daphne explained. “She’d be bound to notice and interrogate me if I don’t have it on every day.”

Justin gave his friend a sympathetic grimace as he pushed up the sleeve of his jacket. “It’s going on eleven,” he apprised Daph.

“Holy shit! Does the bus ride normally take that long?”

“Sometimes longer.” The blond teenager shrugged. “It depends on how good the connections are. We got lucky that the 9:10 bus was running late - or we wouldn’t have gotten here till the afternoon.”

“Jesus, you must have to get up at the crack of dawn!” burst out of the aghast girl.

“Before dawn, it feels like,” Justin disclosed as they skidded along the icy sidewalk.

 After opening the front door to Deb’s house and ushering Daphne inside, Justin shouted, “We’re here!”

“ _Hellooo, Briaaan_ ,” Harley chirped in response.

Wiping her hands on a dishcloth, Debbie emerged from the kitchen. “Harley only ever gives that greeting when you’re around, Sunshine,” she observed, chuckling when the lad’s face pinkened.

“Harley’s a smart budgie - he knows who rates with Jus,” Daphne teased. “By the way,” she shot a guileless look at the blond, “how’s _BOB?”_

The redhead joined in the raillery, chortling,“There hasn’t been much noise from your room of late, Kiddo. The poor fella must be feeling neglected.”

It wasn’t fair, Justin thought as his face went bright crimson, the way the women in his life were ganging up on him. A bloke didn’t stand a chance of keeping up.

Although she maintained a poker face, Daphne’s brown eyes sparkled wickedly. “Maybe I should check him out for you, Jus… make sure his _batteries_ don’t need charging.”

Figuring it would be easier to contend with one laughing hyena instead of two, Justin motioned for Daph to join him as he headed for the stairs.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” his surrogate mum called after them, “since Vic and I have depleted the last one. I’ll whip up a bite for the four of us to eat too.”

Justin nodded at Deb and gave her a faint smile, still too mortified to say anything.

“Cat got your tongue?” the girl mocked, poking him in the back and almost treading on his heel.

The blond teen merely shrugged since he still hadn’t come up with a witty retort. Smirking - his friend wouldn’t know what had hit her - he pushed open the door to Michael’s old room and waved her inside.

Two steps into the room, Daphne stopped dead, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head as she took in the decor. “Christ,” she breathed out in shocked awe, “it’s even worse than you described - one atrocity on top of another.”

Justin sidled into the room behind his friend, dumping his backpack on the desk.

“You actually manage to study in here?” Daph queried.

“I wear blinders,” the boy joked. That wasn’t far from the truth, really; he had to block out the childish wallpaper, curtains, bedding - pretty much everything except the surface of the desk - to get anything done.

“Michael must suffer from arrested development,” Daphne posited. “This room looks like it belongs to a ten or eleven-year-old.”

“It’s been frozen in time,” Justin concurred.

“Yeah, like some sort of grotesque shrine to whatsit, his comic book hero,” Daphne commented, flicking at one of the caped motorcycle riders with a peach-tinted fingernail. She halted as her finger bumped up against a framed picture, astonishment written across her features. “What the fuck?” she questioned, spinning around to look at Justin. “Why does Michael have tutu-clad women on his wall? They’re kinda hard to see against the fugly wallpaper, but still…”

“I can’t decide,” Justin snarked, “whether they’re Captain Astro’s girlfriends - which would put paid to Michael’s theory that his hero is gay - or whether it’s the captain dressed in drag.”

“I’ll go with _Ass-tro_ in drag,” the girl drawled. “The women are butt-ugly enough to be men in disguise. “Oh!” she said a couple moments later, having reached the bulletin board jam-packed with various mementos. Daphne plucked a photo from the middle of the board, examining it more closely. “Oh, my God,” she giggled, “Brian was such a geeky teenager!”

Her laughter was so infectious that Justin also started giggling, especially since he’d had the same thought about his former lover when he first saw the picture of Brian and Michael as young teens. “You’d better be careful not to say that where Brian can hear,” he warned Daphne. “He really gets his dander up whenever anyone calls him geeky. He goes all ‘never was, never will be’ about it.”

The blond zoned out for a few seconds, small droplets of perspiration beading on his skin as he remembered how calling Brian a geek had led to a night-long bout of steamy sex. Every time his former lover had started to fall asleep, Justin whispered “geek” into his ear, which necessitated the brunet stud trying to quell his cheekiness via another fuck...

The lad almost reached for the notebook on his desk to fan himself, halting when he recalled that Daph was in the room too. There was no way she wouldn’t notice, which would provoke her to rib him some more.

“Michael was way cuter as a teenager,” Daphne rendered her opinion. “He looks kind of like the sweet boy next door in this photo.”

Grinning a bit maliciously, Justin remarked, “I hadn’t stolen his ‘best friend’ yet. That’s what transformed him into a jealous shrew.”

“Uh, you do realise that’s an insult intended for a woman, right?” his friend asked, giggling some more.

“If the _shrew_ fits…” the blond deadpanned.

Daphne groaned at the dreadful pun before pondering, “The transformative process must’ve started way before that, Jus, what with Brian stringing the guy along, making him think he had a chance. It’s on Mikey, though, for refusing to get a clue and becoming so spiteful.”

A delicious smell wafting up the stairs, followed by Debbie’s shouted, “Come and get it!” ended the conversation.

Justin’s stomach growled loudly at the notion of more food - it had been a long time since he’d eaten the brownies - setting off a sympathetic echo from Daph’s midsection. The two teens practically galloped down the stairs in their eagerness to get to the fragrant-smelling lunch.

“Wash your mitts,” Debbie ordered, pointing at them with a long wooden spoon as they tumbled into the kitchen.

Hurriedly cleansing his hands in the kitchen sink, Justin inhaled deeply. “Fuck, that smells good,” he praised.

“You mean it _stinks_ good,” Vic corrected from his seat at the table.

The redhead cackled, reminiscing, “Nonno used to make Nonna madder than a wet hen when he said that.”

“Nonno did like to rile her,” Vic agreed cheerfully. “Probably because it led to passionate make-up sex.”

“Victor Grassi!” Debbie rebuked. “I don’t want to think about our grandparents going at it.”

“We wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t,” the older man replied drily. “Besides, it’s me, not you, who should be objecting to a mention of hetero sex.”

“It’s different when it involves our parents or grandparents,” Deb insisted, shuddering.

Justin had to agree with his surrogate mum. He never wanted to imagine his parents ‘doing it’.

“Um, yeah. I’m with her,” Daph intervened, obviously equally revolted by the idea.

“What did you think of my Michael’s room?” Debbie inquired as she ladled heaping portions of sausage tortellini soup into bowls, handing them to Justin to place on the table.

“Erm,” the girl stalled, searching for a diplomatic response.

“You’re probably not into comics,” Vic came to the rescue as he uncorked a bottle of pinot grigio.

“Not so much,” Daph confirmed.

“I know, I know,” Debbie forestalled Vic from saying more, “we need to redecorate that room. It’s high time - Michael moved out over five years ago, and I doubt he’ll ever return here to live.”

Justin blenched at the thought of sharing a house with Michael. One of them would undoubtedly murder the other before a week had passed.

After setting a basket of focaccia flatbread on the table, Deb gleefully rubbed her hands together. “In fact, he’ll probably move in with David soon - I still can’t believe my boy snagged a doctor.”

Not that it stopped him from chasing after other guys, the teenager thought in disgust. From the corner of his eye, he caught Daph wrinkling her nose as if she had smelled something bad. They were, he suspected, on the same wavelength in regard to Michael’s behaviour.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s a doctor or a dustman,” Vic opined, “as long as he’s happy.”

Debbie rolled her eyes at her brother. “Sure, that’s every mother’s dream, for her son to bring home the local garbage man.”

All of them burst out laughing.

As the merriment died away, Vic held the wine bottle over Daphne’s glass. “Your parents okay with you drinking a bit of vino?” he asked.

“Sure,” she instantly replied. “They started letting me have a taste at dinner years ago. That was partly so I wouldn’t be panting after alcohol, and partly so I’d learn what wine to pair with a dish.”

“It’s hard to have a proper Italian meal without wine,” Debbie stated. “Pasta, pizza, seafood - it all needs a good vino to complement the flavour.”

While they were slurping up their soup, Daphne commented excitedly, “Speaking of different types of jobs, how cool is it that Justin’s going to be freelancing as an artist for Brian?”

“Sunshine!” the redhead squealed. She leaned over and squeezed the lad so tightly that Justin coughed his last spoonful back into the bowl.

Mortified, the lad stared down at the regurgitated soup in the nearly empty dish.

Vic bellowed through a gust of laughter, “Thank fuck Sis has found a new victim. The last time she hugged me like that while we were dining, I spewed my food all over the table and the other diners.”

Debbie stood up, grabbed the bowl, bustled over to the sink, dumped the contents down the drain, took out a clean bowl, and returned to the table. “I don’t know what you’re fussing about, Vic,” she chided. “All it takes is having a kid, with messes from both ends, not to get in a flap about a little spill.”

If the tortellini weren’t so tasty, Justin thought, he’d be put off his feed by that visual.

“Little spill, my ass,” Vic muttered.

When the redhead unexpectedly clouted him across the head, Justin nearly had another accident, the soup he was ladling almost splattering onto the table. “What was that for?” Justin complained, rubbing at the spot as soon as he’d safely transferred the soup to his bowl.

“Why didn’t you tell us you’re going to be working for Brian?” the woman demanded, her fists planted on her hips, her red curls corkscrewing wildly as she shook her finger at him.

“Uh, Brian just asked me,” the lad defended himself.

“I don’t think so,” Debbie disagreed, “or Daphne wouldn’t know about it.”

Daphne shot him an apologetic look for revealing the news before he’d told the siblings. It was his fault, Justin realised; he hadn’t made it clear that she was the only person with whom he’d shared that titbit.

“I honestly didn’t think about it,” he disclosed. “Brian just brought it up on Thursday evening. When I got home, the two of you were riveted to the telly, watching a movie. I didn’t want to interrupt,” he shrugged, “and I needed to study, so I figured I’d tell you later.”

“Oh, right,” Vic interjected. “We rented _Gladiator_ \- I snatched the last copy of the just-released VHS from under Marvella’s nose at Blockbuster Video, when she made the mistake of turning around to talk to a built guy who must be her partner.”

“Talking about guys who are fit, that Russell Crowe is a real dish,” Deb announced, fanning herself with her napkin.

“Yep,” Daphne averred, a dreamy expression on her face, “like I told Jus, I’d totally climb him like a tree.”

As he hoovered up more of the soup, Justin felt a twinge of regret that he’d missed the film. Now, he’d have to wait till there wasn’t a mile-long queue of queers waiting for a chance at it.

Vic, who must’ve noticed his crestfallen look, piped up, “We can rent it again, Kiddo. I wouldn’t mind salivating over Crowe another time around.”

“Me neither,” Debbie promptly seconded. “Now, tell us all about this freelancing gig.”

“I don’t know much yet,” Justin admitted, “not the number of hours or the hourly salary.”

“Knowing Brian, it’ll be generous,” Vic commented. “He believes in rewarding quality work.”

“I’m really happy for both you and Brian,” the redhead declared, beaming at Justin. “You’ll gain experience working in a professional capacity, and Brian will have the benefit of a talented artist working for him.”

“I hope I won’t disappoint,” Justin murmured, remembering how underwhelmed Brian had been by his initial attempt at a company logo.

“You’ll do fine,” Vic asserted confidently. “Brian will make sure your hours fit in around your studies and-”

“You can’t possibly work three jobs, though, on top of studying,” Debbie intervened. A frown flitting across her countenance, she queried, “Are you going to give up both the dance gig and the diner? I’d miss your smiling-”

“I’m not quitting either one!” Justin yelled, feeling horribly picked on.

“There’s no reason to get upset, Kiddo,” Vic interposed in a calm tone. “Sis and I just don’t want to see you work yourself into an early grave in an effort to repay Brian.”

Justin stared at the older man. How could he possibly know about his plans to pay back every penny? He was certain Deb wouldn’t have said a word.

Vic immediately affirmed his supposition. “No, Sis didn’t say anything, but I’d have to be an idiot not to figure it out. There’s no other reason for you to work yourself to the bone. Don’t give me that crap about funding your higher education,” he chastised before Justin could open his mouth to do just that. “Between scholarships, financial aid, and working, you’ll be able to handle the tuition, even if you don’t have much spare cash.”

Placing a hand on her friend’s arm, Daphne urged, “Please think about giving up the dancing, Jus. The money you’ll earn isn’t worth the wear and tear on you.”

“I just want to give it a try,” Justin said for what felt like the umpteenth time. “So please don’t lecture me about what I should do, okay?” he beseeched, looking first at Debbie, then Vic, and finally Daphne.

“I won’t make that kind of promise,” his surrogate mum dissented. “No,” she held up a hand, “we’re not going to argue about it. I’ll give you as much leeway as I can, but I take this _in loco parentis_ business seriously, so if I see you making yourself ill, I’m going to sit you down, and we’ll have a serious talk about what you are and aren’t allowed to do. Capici?”

“Yeah, okay,” Justin choked out, tearing up at being so cared for by the motherly woman. He really had lucked out, having Deb take him under her wing, he reflected yet again.

“Enough of this _sentimental bullshit_ ,” Vic interceded with a wink at Justin. “It looks like you two have polished off the soup, so why don’t you take some of those brownies Sis baked out to the living room to help fuel your studies? Thankfully, I graduated from high school years ago, so I’ll indulge in a nap instead. I’m a bit tired.”

“I’ll just help clear the table,” Justin offered as he stood up.

“The only thing you need to clear away,” Debbie joshed, “is that crazy budgie. He’s definitely a chip off the old block - acts just like Harley I.” She gestured toward Harley’s cage, where the budgie was preening in front of his green mirror lantern before batting at it with one claw, causing the bell to chime merrily.

As the lantern stilled, Harley chirped at his mirror image, “ _Hellooo, Briaaan_.”

Justin began giggling helplessly. “Could he possibly be more like Brian, admiring himself like that?” he wondered.

“It wasn’t ‘Briaaan’ that Harley the First took after, however,” Vic teased, tongue in cheek. “It was _Daa-_ ”

“Hush, you,” Debbie ordered, swatting her sibling with the dish towel.

The blond lad was dying of curiosity - could Vic have been about to reveal the name of a former boyfriend of Deb’s?

“I’ll tell you later,” Vic murmured sotto voce as he brushed past Justin with dishes from the table.

“Who do you think Vic was talking about?” Daphne asked Justin a few minutes later, carrying a tray with tea and brownies as she followed her friend into the living room. “I had the idea that Debbie hadn’t dated anyone in forever, like, I don’t know, since she had Michael.”

The blond teen mulled it over as they settled on the couch and arranged Harley’s cage as well as their tea and dessert on the coffee table. “I got a chance to look through some of the family photo albums when we were cleaning out the attic, but the pictures were mostly of family members, as far as I could tell. Debbie was a real looker back in high school, though; I bet the boys were swarming around her.”

“It’s a shame that she doesn’t have someone,” Daphne sighed. “I mean, I know she’s kinda _old_ for sex, but she should have someone to cuddle up with.”

“Um,” Justin chuckled, “I doubt Debbie’s too old for sex. I mean she’s not even fifty yet, not if she had Michael before she graduated from high school.”

“I guess not, but it’s gross to think about it,” the girl replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “She’s our parents’ age, so it’s like what Deb said - who wants to imagine their mum and dad having sex?”

“Not me,” Justin concurred with a grimace. “A bit of romance, though, that’s different, right?”

“Well, duh.” Daph elbowed him in the side, “That’s what I just said, you numbskull.”

The lad gave his bestie an irritated glance that quickly morphed into a smug smile. “Debbie just might have a beau,” he drawled.

“What? Give!” the girl demanded.

“Remember me talking about Detective Horvath?”

Daphne looked at him blankly.

“The one who’s investigating the burglary at Brian’s loft,” Justin elaborated.

“Oh, right,” Daph responded slowly. “Isn’t he the scary Asian detective’s partner?”

Justin laughed, speculating whether Carl got that a lot - being referred to as Wen’s partner.

“Is he still poking around?” his friend asked.

At that question, the boy laughed outright. “Detective Horvath wants to _poke around_ Debbie,” he divulged.

“How do you know that?” Daphne inquired, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“We’ve been getting to know each other a little,” Justin explained, “since he questioned me at the diner, when he was following up on the robbery. Then I went to see him at the police station to report the torched locker, and-”

“Which you should’ve done a lot sooner,” the girl interjected.

“Believe me, I’ve heard that from you and everyone else,” the blond teenager acknowledged her concern. “Anyway, Detective Horvath said how I could contact him at any time - and since I was pretty sure he meant it - I called him the afternoon of the bad snowstorm, when I got stranded at St James.”

“What? You never told me you got stranded!” Daphne squawked.

“I wasn’t intentionally keeping it from you,” Justin reassured her. “It’s just that I missed the bus; it was fucking freezing outside; and it would’ve taken me forever to slog home through the snow that day. The only person I could think of who might be available to help out was the detective, so I gave him a ring. Carl, uh, he wants me to call him by his first name,” the lad stammered, “couldn’t possibly miss the way my stomach was growling-”

Daphne interrupted again, recalling, “Ugh. That’s the day they served the undercooked potato and overboiled egg drenched in that horrid dill sauce.”

“And neither of us had a snack to tide us over till we got home,” Justin agreed. He resumed his tale, “I ended up admitting that I hadn’t had anything to eat since the day before, and Carl insisted that we stop at a restaurant for something to eat. The detective, um, he was so interested and caring, wanting to know how I was doing” - the lad stared down into his teacup - “just like a father should be.” He blinked to clear his eyes of the tears that suddenly threatened to fall, mumbling, “Like how Craig should be.”

Scooching closer to him on the sofa, Daphne rubbed his arm comfortingly. “But now, you’ve got what, two dads? Vic and the detective?”

“I guess I’m pretty lucky after all, huh?” Justin choked out, looking at his friend through watery eyes.

“You are,” Daphne concurred, smiling brightly at him. “Plus, you’ve got Deb, who has the biggest heart ever.”

Justin nodded, blotting at his damp eyes with his shirt sleeve.

“What you’ve failed to tell me, though,” the girl mocked gently, “is how you know that the detective’s interested in Debbie.”

“Oh, er, Carl’s had his eye on Debbie since the first time he saw her at the diner, when he came to question me about the burglary,” Justin elucidated. “I suspect he enjoyed her feistiness, the way she stood up for what she thought was right. He kept dropping by the diner, oftentimes with the flimsiest of excuses, and then he joined us for Thanksgiving after I invited-”

“For fuck’s sake, Jus,” his exasperated friend poked him in the side, “you’re supposed to fill me in about what’s going on with you - like the detective being there for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Justin gave Daphne his best contrite look.

“Oh, all right, I’ll forgive you this once.” Daphne laughed, joking, “I wouldn’t want to be cut off from my source for baked goodies.” as she stuffed a brownie into her mouth.

“Wanna concentrate on physics today,” Justin asked, “so you’ll be _relatively_ prepared for the final exam?”

“You’ll never make a punster, Jus,” the girl accused, shaking her head in mock despair at the boy’s tomfoolery. “That was pitiful.”

“Mr Horner rewards _relative_ preparedness,” Justin punned again with an unrepentant, cheeky grin.

After they collected their textbooks, the youngsters buckled down, studiously poring over the material for nearly two hours, before Daphne croaked, “Enough. Information overload. I’m gonna call home and see if my mum or dad can come get me.”

“Another cup of tea for the road?” Justin questioned as she pulled out her mobile.

“As long as I can visit the bathroom first,” his friend giggled. “Otherwise I’ll be like that girl from maths, crossing my legs, jiggling in my seat, and whining, “ _But I have to go_!”

“The downstairs loo is over there.” Justin waved toward the half bath that was tucked behind the staircase. He trotted into the kitchen with the empty teapot, returning a few minutes later with a fresh, steaming pot and more brownies.

“Okay, I’m ready for another cuppa,” Daphne declared as she emerged from the WC, “now that I’ve made room. My dad won’t be here for about half an hour.”

While Justin was pouring tea for both of them, his eyes lighted on the oblong checkers box, which was resting on top of the telly. “Hey,” he queried as he placed the refilled cup in front of his friend, “do I have ‘tells’ when I play board games, especially draughts?”

“Uh,” Daph hedged, her eyes sliding away from his, “what makes you ask that?”

The lad pouted. “Carl and I played a couple rounds while we were digesting our Thanksgiving dinner. I thought I was a pretty decent player, but the detective absolutely annihilated me. Then I remembered that you win most of the time when we play, so I thought maybe there was something to what he said.”

“You do have a couple giveaways,” Daphne admitted reluctantly, “but if I share them with you, you’ll probably start beating me.”

“Would a daily delivery of lemon bars next week convince you to reveal my tells?” Justin inquired hopefully.

“That is a pretty _sweet_ bribe,” Daph giggled. “Really all the tutoring you’re giving me should be enough of an inducement, but I’ll accept the lemon bars too.”

Justin looked at her expectantly.

“When we’re playing checkers,” the girl disclosed, “you always have your left hand next to the board, and you have a habit of marking off with your index finger which stone, or at least which row, you’re going to play next.”

“Huh, I must be doing that unconsciously so I don’t forget how I want to react, depending on what my opponent does.” Justin mused.

“You could always tie your left hand behind your back,” Daphne kidded.

“Or my right hand,” Justin riposted, not at all bothered by his bestie’s teasing. “I’m ambidextrous, after all.”

Daph rolled her eyes fondly. “Like it’s so tough to be ambidextrous when you’re playing draughts, Jus.”

“You try it,” the blond dared the girl. “You won’t find it as easy as you think.”

“What for?” Daphne retorted, boasting, “I’m still the better player, so I don’t need that kind of gimmick.”

Not for long, Justin promised himself; his friend would be eating her words.

You’re also predictable in how you react to some of my moves,” Daph divulged. “You need to mix it up more, so I’m not as likely to capture your men.”

“Geesh,” the lad complained, “you make it sound like I hardly know how to play the game.”

“Oh, please,” she pshawed, “it’s not like I decimate your stones in ten minutes flat or anything. If I know you, Jus,” she conjectured, “the minute I leave, you’re gonna grab the board I see on the telly and start playing against yourself, so you can hone your skills.”

“Predictable again?” Justin mumbled sourly. He _had_ been planning to do exactly that.

“Nope, just competitive,” Daphne proclaimed. “Neither of us likes to lose.”

They both glanced through the window when a horn honked outside. Quickly taking a last sip of her tea, the young woman rose from the sofa, toting her backpack to the door, where Justin helped her into her coat.

“Thanks for all the help,” she said, giving the blond teen a firm hug. “I’m starting to think I _can_ raise my final grade in physics to a B-.”

“And it’ll be A’s for both us at the end of spring,” Justin announced.

“You betcha!” Daph answered, smiling as she left the house.

With Daphne gone, Justin - as they’d both predicted - played a couple games of checkers, pretending Harley was his opponent and consulting him on what moves he should make. He giggled when his left hand crept toward the board, sitting on it to make it stay still. Once the second game was over, he made himself stop playing and start on the schoolwork for his other classes.

 

A productive couple of hours later, the doorbell rang, interrupting Justin from working on the creative writing homework he had spread across the living room coffee table. He quickly jumped up, yelling at Debbie, who was in the kitchen cooking dinner, that he’d get the door.

He felt almost sorry he had, when he opened the front door and found himself face to face with Michael.

The brunet scowled at him. “What are you doing here?”

Justin stared at him in disbelief. Where the hell had this sudden attitude come from? “I live here,” he deadpanned. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Michael didn’t respond, just pushed past him to get inside the house. “Ma!” he shouted. “I’m here!”

Debbie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “I can see that, Honey,” she remarked with an amused smile, giving her son a kiss on the cheek. “We didn’t expect you, I don’t know if I’ll have enough of the goulash for all of us.”

This prompted Michael to shoot Justin a glare. “The leech will just have to settle for a smaller portion then.”

Debbie flicked the dishcloth at him. “Michael!” she admonished him. “Be nice and set the table, would you?”

The brunet huffed, reminding Justin of a mardy teenager. “Can’t Justin do it? I mean, it’s kind of his job.”

Hands on her hips, the redhead narrowed her eyes at her son, “Michael Charles Novotny! It’s no more Justin’s job than it is yours. Both of you are part of my family. Now, if you’d quit whinging and set the table, you’ll be done in all of five minutes. Then you can relax with Sunshine while I finish cooking. Capisci?”

“Yeah, okay, Ma,” the short brunet sulkily agreed. He made a big production out of getting the dishes from the cupboard, putting the plates down with a loud clatter.

When Debbie ordered, “Be careful or you’ll break those,” the blond teen escaped to the living room.

Justin went back to his homework, trying to ignore Michael, who had just settled down on the sofa opposite him and was smirking at him smugly. Unable to concentrate on his homework, Justin lost his patience after a couple of minutes and threw his pen down. “Ok, what’s going on?” he asked the older man.

The brunet snorted. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Justin suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at Michael’s immature behaviour. “Yes, I would,” he said instead. “That’s why I asked.”

The older man leaned over the coffee table to smirk at Justin from up close, wrinkling some of the teenager’s papers in the process. “I saw something yesterday.”

The blond raised his eyebrows. “And?”

Michael grinned. “And,” he whispered slowly, clearly enjoying himself, “you are finally on the outs.”

Justin snorted skeptically. “What are you even talking about?” Could the muppet possibly be any more vague?

“He found a better blond!” Michael crowed.

Like that made it all clear, Justin thought, rolling his eyes. He had no clue what the little weasel was talking about.

“Brian, you idiot!” Michael screamed, jumping around in his chair. “Brian found a prettier blond than you! I know he fucked the shit outta that guy.”

The teenager yawned. How could Michael think Brian fucking a trick in the backroom, no matter the colour of his hair, was newsworthy?

“Everything okay, boys?” Deb inquired, sticking her head into the living room. “It’s getting kinda loud in here.”

“We’re fine, Ma.” Michael simpered at his mother, gesturing vaguely at the TV. “Just an exciting game we were discussing.”

Did he really think Debbie would fall for that? As far as the Justin knew, Michael had zero interest in sports of any kind.

“Huh.” The redhead eyed the remote control, which was on top of the telly, nowhere close to either of them. “Well, keep it down. Vic’s not going to get any rest if you make a ruckus.”

Frowning, Justin mused that Vic was indulging in an awfully long nap. He shrugged it off a moment later, though, figuring the older man must’ve had a restless night; Vic had said that happened sometimes because of his meds.

As soon as Deb left the room, Michael hissed. “Don’t you get it? Brian found an improved blond, one who’s not only better-looking than you but who also won’t stalk him like a teenaged lapdog.”

Justin snorted. If anyone was Brian’s _lapdog_ , it was Michael.

His face turning blotchy with anger at the younger man’s disinterest, Michael taunted, “I was there yesterday evening, you little pissant, when Brian let the blond doublefinger into his loft. Like I said, though, he was _much_ prettier than you. Brian couldn’t keep his hands or his lips off the kid!” he finished triumphantly.

If he weren’t so horror-struck, Justin mused, he’d laugh at Michael’s latest malapropism, mangling _doppelgänger_ into ‘doublefinger’. Instead, he sat frozen in place, Michael’s announcement reverberating in his head. He wouldn’t have cared if Brian had fucked a trick in the backroom at Babylon, or even at the loft - both were pretty much standard operating procedure for the stud. But for his former lover to procure another blond - a rent boy who must’ve borne a strong resemblance to Justin - mere hours after propositioning him to come over for an all-night fuck, was another matter entirely. He was so pissed that he couldn’t see or hear anything for a few long moments.

When he became aware of his surroundings again, he saw Michael’s mug hovering in front of him, malicious pleasure in the brunet’s eyes as he jeered, “Guess you’re not much of a Boy Wonder after all, huh? Now that he’s had better, Brian will never fuck you again.”

Justin refused to give Michael any further satisfaction by reacting strongly. If it wouldn’t show how upset he truly was, he’d retaliate by saying it was far more likely that Brian would fuck him again, than that he’d ever fuck Michael for a first time. Somehow, he found the wherewithal to reply mildly, “Brian can fuck whomever he wants; we’re not together any more.”

“Come and get it boys!” Debbie yelled from the kitchen, sparing Justin from having to listen to more vituperative remarks from Michael.

“That looks really good, Debs,” the blond complimented his surrogate mum, whilst wondering how he could force down a single bite. It was one of the few times in his life that he could remember his appetite deserting him.

“Thanks, Sunshine.” Debbie beamed at him. “I’m afraid it’s nothing special, though; I just threw some of the leftover ingredients from lunch together with a few other items to create a goulash.”

Worried that his stomach might revolt at any moment, Justin tried to take a small helping, but the redhead would have none of that, nabbing the serving spoon from him and ladling a larger portion into his bowl, cackling, “Don’t forget you’re a growing boy, Kiddo.”

The blond lad swirled his spoon around in his bowl, hoping Debbie wouldn’t notice he wasn’t actually consuming any of the stew. If it would erase Michael’s smug grin, he’d be tempted to catapult some of it onto the brunet’s face.

“Why didn’t you bring Dr Dave with you, Honey?” Deb asked her son. “I hope he knows he’s always welcome here.”

Michael pouted a little. “He was supposed to cook for the two of us, but then he got called in to attend to an injured Penguin. I dropped him off so I could use his car.”

“So that’s why you came over?” the redhead asked, quirking her eyebrow at her son. “Because David wasn’t available to cook for you?”

“Well, yeah. That’s what mothers do, right?” Michael claimed. “I know it makes you happy to cook for me, Ma.”

Justin stared at the spoiled brat in shock. He would never have dared say something so rude to his mum; if he had, no one would have been able to find his body.

“Michael Charles Novotny!” Debbie called out in outrage, rapping his knuckles with the wooden serving spoon. “I’d better be more than a short-order cook who supplies the food you shovel into your gob!”

“Ow!” Michael protested, snatching his hand away. “That hurt.”

Justin barely suppressed a laugh. Too bad Debbie hadn’t applied more of that kind of discipline when Michael was growing up.

“You can be polite, Michael, and show some appreciation for a home-cooked meal, or you can go home and rustle up something for yourself.” the irate woman commanded.

“I’ll stay,” the brunet mumbled as he shoved another large spoonful into his mouth. “The only ready-to-eat thing at my Honeybun’s is a can of tuna, and I don’t do seafood.”

The blond boy guessed that passed for _appreciation_ from Michael.

“Yes you do, Honey,” Debbie cackled. “You see food, you eat food.”

Justin grinned to himself. He adored Deb’s brash sense of humour.

Shaking her head in resignation, the redhead mused, “How you can be part Italian and not eat fish, I don’t know.”

“I bet Brian would like this stew,” Michael proclaimed a few minutes later, scooping up another helping of the goulash. “Since your lodger isn’t eating, I should take some of it over to him.”

“Sunshine? Are you feeling all right?” Debbie asked in motherly concern, reaching over to press the back of one hand to Justin’s forehead.

“Yeah.” Justin gave her a sheepish look. “I think I may have eaten too many brownies,” he prevaricated.

The redhead glanced at him in puzzlement. “A little dessert has never lessened your appetite before, Kiddo. It doesn’t matter if you’re not hungry right now, though; the stew can be reheated.”

“Ma!” Michael objected. “I just told you I want to take some of this over to Brian.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Debbie retorted. “You don’t even know if Brian’s home and, regardless, he eats like a fucking bird - he’d bitch and moan about how much fat there is in the goulash. I’m not having it go to waste.”

A sullen expression on his face, Michael opened his mouth to argue some more.

“Oh, speaking of Brian,” Debbie announced, “have you heard the good news that Justin’s going to be working for him?”

“What? No way - he’s just gotten rid of the little shit,” the brunet objected loudly.

“Brian knows quality when he sees it,” Deb proudly asserted. “Sunshine’s going to be freelancing as an artist for Brian’s new agency.”

“No way!” Michael reiterated, pushing back his chair and standing up. “He can’t want to have that irresponsible brat working for him. I’d better go talk some sense into my best friend.”

“Sit down!” Debbie ordered. The fiery redhead waited until her son had complied before stating, “You know very well, Michael, that Brian never does anything he doesn’t want to do, so if he’s hired Sunshine, it’s because he’s seen what a strong work ethic Justin has, and he knows the artwork Sunshine produces will meet his exacting standards.”

Justin felt warmed by Debbie’s defense of him and was especially gratified to observe how Michael’s earlier smugness had faltered. His appetite beginning to return, he spooned up some of the goulash, doing his best to ignore the other man’s denigration of his character.

The short brunet didn’t deign to look at the teen as he gesticulated wildly with his arms, ranting, “He’s a complete tosser! He’s already proven how irresponsible he is, leaving Brian’s loft unlocked so that thieves could burgle all of his stuff. The little knobhead will probably end up doing the same thing at his new place of business. Don’t you see, Ma? I’ve got to warn Brian before he makes a huge mistake!”

Although he was seething at indirectly being called a _mistake_ , Justin didn’t try to exonerate himself, afraid he’d say something unforgivable to Michael. He doubted any comment he made would bother the older man, but he might hurt his surrogate mother’s feelings, which he didn’t want to happen. So he stayed quiet, letting Debbie defend him.

“Michael, I’m ashamed of you!” the redhead castigated her son. “Justin is a member of this family, same as you. _He is not a mistake_.”

“But, Ma,” the brunet whined, “it won’t be good for Brian’s reputation to have a go-go boy working for him. What will his clients think?”

“I wish Sunshine would quit dancing,” Debbie replied, her tone sharp, “because I think he’s exhausting himself by taking on too much. But,” she chuckled, “I don’t see how his go-go dancing could possibly harm Brian’s agency. How would his clients find out about it anyway? And if they’re the kind of customer who’d actually visit Babylon and watch Justin swivel his hips” - Debbie waggled her eyebrows - “that would probably just make them eager to have Brian and his _multitalented_ artist handle their accounts.”

The blond was bewildered by Michael’s plan of attack. If the man wanted him to _keep_ dancing, thereby making him an undesirable employee, shouldn’t he be encouraging Justin to remain a go-go boy? Instead the nitwit seemed to be suggesting that if Justin didn’t _stop_ dancing, he was being ungrateful.

“I’ll just get us some dessert,” Debbie offered, rising from the table. “Maybe that’ll tempt your appetite, Sunshine.”

“Um, I think my appetite has already returned.” Justin smiled at his surrogate mum, holding out an empty bowl.

“That’s great!” The redhead beamed at him. “Now, how about a slice of pecan pie?”

“Yes, please,” the blond responded eagerly. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Always so polite,” Debbie noted, chucking him affectionately under the chin. “Why don’t you start a pot of coffee?”

The teen set about measuring the grounds and pouring water into the coffee maker, doing his best to ignore a glowering Michael. He’d had a surfeit of the man’s petty behaviour for one day and hoped the brunet would leave as soon as he’d consumed a piece of the pie.

Once the coffee had percolated, Justin filled three mugs and rejoined the others at the table, salivating as he eyed the ginormous piece of pie in front of his chair. “Did you give me half the pie?” he teased Debbie.

“Sure, Kiddo,” the redhead joked in return. “Gotta fuel you up for your dance gig tonight.”

Michael again muttered something about him being an ungrateful brat, but that was hardly a new slur, so Justin didn’t pay attention.

“Golly,” Deb suddenly spoke up, “I can’t believe I forgot to remind everyone - tomorrow the Christmas decorations have to go up. Because of the garage sale, we’ve already deviated from the Grassi-Novotny tradition of decorating on the first Sunday after Thanksgiving; we can’t put it off any longer. You’re both all set to help, right?”

“I’m looking forward to putting up all those decorations we unearthed from the attic,” Justin readily acknowledged.

“Sorry, Ma, no can do,” Michael responded. “I’m supposed to spend the day with David.”

“Nice try,” Deb laughed at her son. “But it won’t fly since I chatted with Dr Dave at the diner yesterday. He said he has to be at the game the Ironmen are playing in the afternoon, in case any of them require his services.”

“But I was going to-”

Justin never heard what excuse Michael was going to give next, since Debbie put her foot down. “It’s a family tradition,” she emphasised. “We’ve been doing it this way ever since Nonno and Nonna purchased this house; it’s not going to change now. Besides, this year,” Debbie smiled warmly at Michael and then at Justin, “I have two sons to help out.”

The blond felt himself getting all misty-eyed at being counted as one of Deb’s sons. He decided he could even put up with Michael’s spiteful attitude if he had Debbie for a surrogate mother.

 

While Justin was doing his best to tolerate Michael, Brian was busy cruising down Liberty Avenue. Following his torturous run on the treadmill, he’d been only too glad to drive back to the loft and crash on his bed for a couple of hours. He even forwent the sauna at Ript, too tired to care about how much it might’ve relaxed his sore muscles.

Then, invigorated by his nap, Brian had showered, replaced the soiled bedding - which was beginning to reek after the session with the sub-par escort last night - and settled in front of his computer, trying to come up with sexy ad copy for the Wertshafter account. Unhappy with the results, he gave up a few hours later and decamped to Woody’s for a drink, and maybe a trick to suck him off. Multiple offers and a few beers later, with none of the potential tricks appealing to the brunet stud as much as the blond teenager who’d rejected him the day before, he decided it couldn’t hurt to implement the first step of Operation Twat Retrieval a little earlier than planned. He’d just drive by Debbie’s home and drop in for a chat with Vic. No one would suspect he was really there to see Justin.

Brian frowned in consternation when he noticed Dr Dave’s car parked in front of Deb’s house. If he went inside, Michael and David were bound to be cooing at each other, and he’d had more than enough of such ridiculous behaviour. He recalled again how Mikey had hung all over him at Woody’s, while babbling about his ‘mookie-pookie bear,’ the nauseatingly cute endearment making the stud’s stomach roil. Plus, it would be difficult for him to shake off Michael - his childhood friend almost always seemed to know exactly where he was and what he was doing when they were in the same place - so he probably wouldn’t be able to engineer a private moment with Justin, especially if the blond was still pissed off about the previous day’s contretemps.

Sighing, the adman turned his jeep around and headed back to the loft. He refused to contend with the other horny fags at Babylon for the blond brat’s attention while he was dancing; that meant he’d have to settle for jerking off to porn or a movie star in one of his favourite films.

 

After dancing for over four hours that night, Justin was still totally peeved at Brian and stewing about how his ex had first tried to fuck him and then substituted him with some rent boy. It felt like Brian had only wanted to scratch an itch, not actually sleep with Justin. Obviously, _any blond would do_ to satisfy the brunet’s needs.

The teenager barely noticed his surroundings or the hands that pawed at him lustfully as the patrons slipped money under the bands of his white briefs. Finally, however, Freddie’s shouted, “Justin, it’s time for your break,” penetrated his angry haze. “Jesus, kid, what’s with you tonight?” the bartender asked as he helped him down from the bar. “The fags are loving the way you’re shaking your booty like the fucking Energizer Bunny, but you need to rest occasionally, or you’re going to collapse.”

“Ehm, I’ve just got some stuff going on,” Justin fumbled for a reason to explain his unusual level of energy.

“Whatever, you need to hydrate,” the kindly barkeep persisted in caring for the boy, pushing a bottle of cold water at him. “Even if you want to hang out behind the bar rather than going to the break room, you should wipe off the sweat,” he added, tossing a towel at Justin, “and cover up, or you’ll get chilled.”

As sweat streamed down his body, the lad found it hard to imagine being cold, but he knew Freddie was right about catching a chill, so he toweled off before donning the t-shirt and sweats the man threw at him. The sweatpants swam on him, but at least that made it easy to pull them on without removing his trainers.

“Have you noticed your new admirer?” Freddie spoke into Justin’s ear as he served drinks to the men pressing up against the bar.

“Huh?” That got the blond teen’s attention, his head whipping around as he looked to see whether the creep who’d wanted a jizz-o-graph was nearby.

“Relax,” Freddie chuckled. “The guy’s harmless, kinda cute, not much older than you, I’d guess. He looks like he’s scared shitless; he started to approach you a couple of times, but then he backed off.”

“Which one is he?” Justin queried, beginning to get curious. It was nice to have a distraction from his dark thoughts about Brian.

“You’d better not be obvious about checking him out, or he’ll probably duck behind that pillar again, the one to the left of the bar.” the bartender advised. “He’s the dude wearing street clothes, a denim jacket over a dark green t-shirt - makes me wonder if he’s ever been here before since it’s hardly typical clubbing attire.”

Raising his hands above his head, Justin stretched, working out the kinks in his back as he casually looked toward the area Freddie had indicated. He quickly located the boy, his plain clothing making him stick out amongst the nattily dressed queers. “Is it okay if I nab a bottle of water for him?” the blond teen asked.

“Of course. Help yourself,” the barkeep answered as he handed drinks to a couple of customers and collected their payment.

Justin sauntered toward the kid - he might be a little older than him, but his uncertainty made him appear younger. Once he was next to the other boy, he propped a shoulder against the post and casually inquired, “Want some water?”

The brown-haired lad jumped a little, clearly startled. “Who, me?” he asked

“Yeah, you looked like you might be thirsty,” Justin replied, holding out the extra bottle of water.

“Uh, thanks.” The boy blushed as he accepted the bottle.

“I’m Justin,” the blond offered, holding out his hand.

The other lad fumbled with his bottle, before he managed to extend his right hand to shake Justin’s. Clearing his throat, he squeaked, “Erk, uh, that is, Eric. I’m Eric.”

Justin couldn’t prevent himself from grinning. The kid reminded him of himself, that first night he’d set foot on Liberty Avenue.

Eric sighed, smacking himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand. “I sound like such a dolt.”

“I think we all do… the first time,” the blond teen remarked gently. Considering the other boy’s clumsy hesitancy, he was beginning to suspect he might be a virgin, although he probably wasn’t as inexperienced as Justin had been a couple months ago.

The other boy winced. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only because I acted the same, not all that long ago,” Justin explained.

“How old are you?” Eric blurted, hastily tacking on, “I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like you’re maybe fifteen. A, uh, _really hot_ fifteen.”

“I’ll be eighteen in a couple of months,” Justin enlightened him. “How about you?”

The boy shuffled awkwardly in place, finally untwisting the cap of the bottle and breaking the seal. He slopped water down his front as he went to take a sip, exclaiming, “Shit!”

“That’s not an age I’ve heard before,” the blond teased. In the back of his mind, he could hear the embarrassing ‘rocket launch’ countdown he’d gone through with Brian, before finally halting at seventeen.

His face turning red, Eric stammered, “Uh, I’m nineteen, almost twenty.”

“So what do you think of Babylon?” Justin asked, trying to put the other boy at ease.

“It’s really cool,” Eric asserted, eyeing the throng of dancing men. “Er, do you ever dance with the customers? I’ve been watching you for a while, but I’ve been too chickenshit to approach you. It’s hard to compete with some of the guys in here, who are, like, all over you.”

Justin glanced down at himself before smiling at Eric, “Not when my pants are about to slide off and trip me up,” he joked.

“Maybe later?” Eric asked hopefully.

“I can’t. I dance until the club closes at two o’clock,” the blond stated. “Some night when I’m not working, though, sure.”

“Um,” the other lad visibly gathered his courage, “if I waited for you, would you like to go home with me? I live in a dorm over at Carnegie Mellon, but my roommate’s away for the night, so we’d have the place all to ourselves.”

Justin blinked, not having expected that invitation. He examined Eric more closely, liking what he saw - a lean body, pleasing facial features, and - best of all - the way the boy so openly admired him. Why should he wait around for Brian any longer? Justin mused, acknowledging to himself that he’d been doing exactly that. It was pathetic, especially since it appeared that he was interchangeable with any other blond his former lover could find. Plus, before the burglary, he’d been getting rather tired of dealing with Brian’s stubborn refusal to think of him as more than a convenient fuck, even though his actions said otherwise.

“I won’t be off for almost two hours,” Justin cautioned. “Are you sure you want to wait that long?”

Eric gave him a radiant smile. “No problem. I’ll just watch you dance.”

 

As promised, Eric watched Justin all the way through the final song for the night which, unsurprisingly, was _In the Navy_. The blond danced to the song more enthusiastically than he had earlier, hamming it up for boy he’d be going home with. When the last note faded away, Justin jumped down from the bar and made his way over to Eric. “Wait here,” he requested. “I just need to get changed; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Justin slipped into his clothes and then checked his wallet for the condom and packet of lube he kept stashed inside. He wanted to be prepared in case Eric didn’t have supplies on hand. The blond trotted back to the bar, stating, “I’m ready,” and grabbed Eric’s hand, tugging him toward the door to the club.

The two lads laughed, jostling against each other in their haste to get outside. Eric held up a hand to hail one of the taxis that was waiting for departing clubgoers, urging Justin into the backseat. Inside the cab, Eric clutched his hand tightly, as if fearing the blond would vanish if he let go.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulled onto Margaret Morrison Street and stopped in front of a cluster of dorm buildings. After Eric paid the driver, he gestured toward a multistorey dormitory. “I’m in here,” he commented, his voice cracking.

Justin grabbed the other boy’s hand again, rubbing his thumb across Eric’s knuckles in attempt to soothe his obvious nervousness. It wasn’t as effective as he’d hoped, Eric dropping his key twice as he tried to fit it into the keyhole once they reached his room. “Hey,” the blond teen husked, removing the key from Eric’s hand and opening the door for him, before following him into the room. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, okay?” Although he’d be disappointed if they only necked a bit, Justin didn’t want the kid to feel pressured.

“Could we just talk for a minute?” the other boy asked timorously, pointing toward one of the two beds. “That one’s mine.”

“Sure,” Justin replied, sitting down next to him and bumping his shoulder with his own.

“Um,” Eric confessed, looking Justin in the eye while he knotted his hands together, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Fucked, you mean?” Justin requested clarification.

“Anything, really.” Eric swallowed hard. “Until tonight, I’ve been so scared to approach anyone that I’ve, uh, barely even kissed another guy.”

The blond couldn’t help wondering what had prompted Eric to visit Babylon - that was a huge step for an inexperienced queer. Although he and Brian had exchanged countless kisses, Justin had never wanted to kiss anyone else. Something about Eric, however, made him want to share a kiss with the other boy. It was a heady feeling to have the inexperienced lad desire him so strongly.

His mind made up, Justin offered, “That’s easily rectified,” cupping Eric’s chin in one hand and gently pressing their mouths together. A few seconds later, the other boy’s lips parted, and Justin swiped his tongue along the seam, allowing it to dart inside a little ways.

Eric hummed, his tongue hesitantly touching the tip of Justin’s. The blond gradually deepened the kiss, until their tongues were tangled, their mouths fused. Long moments passed before he pulled back, smiling at the dazed boy, who was heaving in air.

“Again?” Eric beseeched, turning his body more fully toward Justin’s.

The blond felt proud to have provoked such a reaction in a relative neophyte. Leaning forward, he kissed Eric again… and then again, losing track of time.

When their lips finally parted, Eric asked, “Can I touch you?”

“That’s what you’re doing,” Justin teased gently, placing his palm over the hand Eric had pressed against his chest while they were lip-locked.

“Uh, I mean your skin.” Eric flushed. “I so badly wanted to run my hands all over your body while you were dancing.”

The grinning blond didn’t say a word, simply pulling his tee over his head and discarding it on the floor.

Now that his wish had been granted, Eric looked nonplussed. “Where do I start?” he inquired, eyeing the alabaster expanse of Justin’s torso.

Justin reached out and placed Eric’s hand on his chest, where it had previously been clutching his shirt. “Pretend you’re touching yourself,” he suggested.

The brown-haired lad slowly smoothed his hands over Justin’s skin, his thumb brushing over the younger boy’s nipple at one point. Correctly interpreting Justin’s sudden inhale as a sign of pleasure, he rubbed his thumb over the sensitive nub again.

“Try pinching it,” Justin rasped, moaning when Eric did so. The boy proceeded to tweak his other nipple without being prompted, alternately rubbing it and then pinching, until it was a stiff peak.

Wanting to reciprocate and show Eric just how good that felt, Justin eased his hands under the boy’s t-shirt and nudged it upward. Once Eric realised what he was doing, he assisted in the process, leaning back and almost tearing the cotton in his eagerness to remove his tee.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he groaned when, instead of using his fingers, Justin leaned down to flick his tongue across one areola.

The blond smiled at the reaction, remembering the first time he’d elicited that reaction from Brian, applying what the brunet stud had taught him. Shaking his head, Justin tried to banish thoughts of his ex; he needed to concentrate on Eric, to make his first time special. His tongue flicked over the boy’s nipple again, before he bit down gently.

Almost levitating off the bed, Eric let out a wordless moan. Justin pushed on his chest, until the boy’s upper body was flat on the bed, and began to caress and kiss his way down the older teen’s torso. Eric threaded the fingers of one hand through Justin’s hair, tugging at the blond strands as Justin pleasured him, his other hand grasping at the rumpled bedspread.

When he eventually reached the place where skin was covered by denim, Justin glanced up questioningly. “Should I keep going?” he asked, his fingers itching to release the button at the waistband of Eric’s jeans.

Eric lifted his head and shoulders, nodding, before dropping back down onto the mattress with a thump.

Quickly undoing the button and unzipping the fly of Eric’s jeans, Justin slid off the bed onto his knees, tugging on the denim, laughing a little when he realised he’d forgotten to take off the boy’s shoes. Apparently recognising the obstacle, Eric helped him get rid of the footwear, toeing off one shoe and then the other while the blond lad pulled at them.

Jeans and shoes gone, Justin peppered Eric’s legs and inner thighs with lazy, sloppy kisses until he reached his goal, the erection which was tenting the other boy’s underwear. The blond giggled, noticing that Eric favoured the same tighty-whities he wore.

“Wha-” Eric slurred.

“Just admiring your taste in underwear,” Justin joked, before running a couple of fingers under the elastic on one of Eric’s legs while also mouthing his straining shaft through the fabric.

“Shit!” Eric warned him. “I’m not going to last if you keep that up.”

Justin smiled wickedly - he didn’t want Eric to come in his underwear during his first blowjob. Sitting back on his heels for a moment, the blond carefully lifted the damp fabric away from Eric’s shaft before stripping them off and tossing them over his shoulder. He then returned to his self-appointed task, swirling his tongue across the tip of boy’s cock and sampling his precome, before slowly sinking down until his nose was nestled in springy, brown curls. He swallowed once, twice, and then Eric was shooting down his throat.

After he let Eric’s softened flesh slide out of his mouth, the only sound for a few minutes was the brown-haired boy’s panting breath. Eric finally groaned, “Fuck, you’re good at that. How’d you ever manage to get my entire dick into your mouth?”

“Practice,” Justin responded. “Plus, I’m a natural at sucking cock.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to try that just yet,” Eric said, his face stained with embarrassment.

“That’s okay,” the blond assured him, willing his erection to subside. While he was giving Eric the blow job, his arousal had been growing. It was so long since he’d had anything except _BOB_ to play with that he'd worried he might come in his pants; now it looked like he might not get to come at all. Since he wasn’t sure he could be in the same room with Eric and not pounce on him, he stood up and reached for his t-shirt, wondering if he had enough money for a taxi back to Deb’s place.

“Wait!” Eric protested as he inserted his arms into the sleeves, gesturing toward Justin’s groin, where it felt like all his blood had pooled. “I didn’t mean I don’t want to do anything else, just that I’m not ready to, uh, suck your cock.”

Even frotting would be better than nothing, Justin supposed, sitting back down on the bed. “What do you want?” he asked.

Eric looked at him bashfully. “I’d like you to fuck me,” he stated quietly.

“Are you sure?” Justin asked, gazing at him doubtfully. “I work at the Liberty Diner, so you can always find me there. We could hook up later on.”

“No. I’m ready now,” the boy insisted.

His arousal returning full force, Justin removed the condom and lube from his wallet before shedding his sneakers, cargo pants, and briefs. “It’s going to hurt some,” he cautioned. “It’s unavoidable.”

“I know,” Eric replied, “but I don’t care. I don’t want to be a virgin any longer.”

“If you roll over onto your side and I enter you from the rear,” Justin disclosed, “it’ll hurt less.”

“Could we do it face-to-face?” Eric husked. “I want to look at you while you’re inside me.”

“Okay,” Justin acquiesced. After all, he’d wanted the same when Brian fucked him the first time. He tore open the lube and condom packets, sheathed his painfully hard cock, slicking it with some of the lube before smearing more of it across his fingers and onto Eric’s opening.

“That’s cold,” the boy gasped.

“It’ll warm up,” Justin promised, hearing echoes of his and Brian’s voices.

Despite his eagerness to be inside Eric, Justin took his time, slowly sliding one finger into the boy. He waited for the slight grimace to subside and the lad’s cock to become fully engorged, before adding another digit and then a third, shifting his fingers around until he located Eric’s prostate. When he brushed against the bundle of nerves, Eric arched up from the bed and demanded, “More!”

The blond scissored his fingers, making sure to stimulate Eric’s sweet spot again. He knew he’d prepped the boy as thoroughly as possible when Eric protested the removal of his fingers.

“Put your legs over my shoulders,” Justin instructed. His cockhead probing at Eric’s opening, he added, “Breathe out and push down; it’ll hurt less.”

As he’d expected, the boy still tensed up, but Justin soothed Eric by rubbing one palm gently across his stomach. This also served as a slight distraction, allowing him to press forward steadily until his balls slapped against Eric’s skin. He halted, giving the older teen a chance to adjust, before easing out, making sure to drag across the lad’s prostate, jabbing at it as he plunged back in.

“More,” Eric demanded again.

Justin acceded, arousal sweeping over him as he pistoned in and out. It felt so fucking good. It had been so damned long since he’d had sex, though, that he worried that he wouldn’t be able hold on until Eric had come. His vision whiting out, he groped for the boy’s cock, sliding his fingers up and down, Eric’s arse tightening around him as the boy spurted into his hand.

His pleasure cresting, Justin unloaded into the condom, dropping down onto Eric as the last pulse flowed out of him. Long seconds later, he roused himself, pulling out of the other boy as gently as he could. He glanced at Eric, who was out cold, a soft snore tumbling out of his open mouth.

A sated Justin staggered from the bed into the bathroom, tying off condom and tossing it into the wastebasket under the sink. After washing his hands, he stepped back into Eric’s room and pulled on his clothes. He glanced at the boy once more, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his forehead, slipping out of the dormitory as dawn was breaking across the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘pound of flesh’ and the name ‘Shylock’ allude to Shakespeare’s play, The Merchant of Venice.
> 
> The Pittsburgh Penguins are a professional ice hockey team which is part of the NHL (National Hockey League).
> 
> If you’d like to see the graphics in this chapter, you can go to http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=31.
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	32. Chapter 32

Justin snorted, starting awake as his head tilted and hit something hard and cold.

“Wha?” he mumbled, blinking his eyes open and looking around blearily. Before he could focus on anything, his whole world suddenly shifted, sending Justin’s body forwards before violently jerking him back and knocking his head into something again. A squeaking sound, followed by a loud hiss and an onslaught of cold caused the blond to awaken enough to start using his brain and figure out he was sitting on a bus.

“Ouch,” he complained, rubbing at the back of his head. He had banged it against the bus window when the damned thing stopped to pick up some early risers at one of the stops.

Yawning, he tiredly ran a hand through his messy hair. He was completely knackered after the night he’d had, what with dancing the first half of it and then having exhausting sex the rest of it. He’d thought about crashing on the bed with Eric for a couple of hours but decided against it. Although he liked Eric, he didn't want to start a relationship with him - leaving right away meant the kid wouldn’t get a false impression, and Justin wouldn't have to ‘talk out’ what had happened with a boy who was, essentially, a one-night stand.

Don’t get him wrong, he was honoured to have been the boy’s ‘first,’ but the whole experience was making him strangely uneasy. As he tried to pinpoint the reason for his anxiety, the idea that he’d cheated on Brian flitted through Justin’s mind. He burst out in raucous laughter at that bit of utter nonsense, causing the matronly woman sitting closest to him to first look at him askance and then get up and move to a seat nearer the driver.

The blond teen glanced around the bus, noting that the other two early-morning passengers were also eyeing him with trepidation. He must’ve been making a spectacle, Justin realised - almost giving himself a concussion when he’d awakened, his hair flying every whichaway, his clothing rumpled, and guffawing for no apparent reason.

So as to reassure the other riders, he attempted to stifle his hilarity, but more laughter bubbled up. Really, where had that crazy thought about ‘cheating’ on Brian come from? It wasn’t as if his former lover was alone at his loft, pining away for him.

Another seventeen minutes passed, Justin’s eyelids drooping to half mast again, when the bus came to an abrupt halt at the stop closest to Debbie’s house, jolting him back to wakefulness. Thank fuck there was someone waiting to be picked up, the teen reflected as he staggered down the steps, or the vehicle would have just sailed right past his stop, without him even noticing. He was more than ready to be home and slide into bed for a morning nap. Everything else could wait until he’d had a couple of hours of shut-eye.

The weary teen trotted up the walkway to Deb’s house a short while later, never more glad to see the giant rainbow flag, which hung vertically from the front porch eave, fluttering in the wind. Bracing one hand against the door, he fumbled with the key, his other hand clumsy with cold as he tried to insert it into the keyhole. Suddenly, the door was pulled open, sending him sprawling into Debbie’s arms.

“Where have you been?” she yelled, clasping him tightly to her capacious bosom and rocking back and forth. “I’ve been worried sick! I always hear those old wooden stairs creak when you make your way up to your bedroom, but there was nary a sound this morning.”

“Nngh,” Justin mumbled unintelligibly.

“Sis,” Vic’s voice chided, “he can’t answer with the way you’ve got him pressed against your tits.”

“Oh, right,” Debbie acknowledged, pushing Justin away a little, moving her hands to his upper arms, and giving him a shake. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Sunshine?”

“Uh, I-” the blond stammered, shivering as a tendril of icy wind flipped up the bottom of his threadbare jacket.

“For fuck’s sake, Sis, let him inside,” Vic recommended. “You can still berate the lad, but at least he can warm up while he explains.”

Justin caught a glimpse of the older man over Debbie’s shoulder. From the way his eyes were twinkling, Vic appeared to be more amused than upset.

Her focus changing slightly, the redhead placed a palm against Justin’s cheek, critiquing, “Jesus, Kiddo, you’re frozen solid. Take off your coat and get into the kitchen. The kettle’s steaming on the hob, so the tea will steep in no time. You’ll soon warm up once you have a cuppa in you.”

After stripping off his coat and mittens, the blond followed Deb into the kitchen - something warm to drink did sound good before he sacked out.

“Sit that bubble butt down over there,” Debbie commanded, pointing toward the kitchen table as she poured boiling water into the teapot.

The teenager joined Vic, who had just carried three cups and saucers, spoons, the creamer, and sugar bowl to the table.

“Now,” the redhead commanded as she transported the teapot to the table and started to take a seat. “Tell me where-”

The loud chiming of the doorbell interrupted Debbie, who griped, “Who the fuck’s that?”

Justin made to stand up and answer the door, but plonked back down onto his chair when the aggravated woman commanded, “Stay right there, Sunshine. I’ll get it myself.”

As she tromped out of the kitchen, Vic winked at the teenager, who was torn between feeling bad for worrying his surrogate mother and embarrassed to have her checking up on him. “This is a mild reaction, Kiddo; you should have seen how she used to be with Michael.”

The blond boy’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. How could that be possible?

Wincing, Vic muttered, “I may have spoken too hastily.” as he looked toward the entrance to the kitchen.

The rumbling of a man’s deep voice reached Justin, and he wanted to sink through the floor as Carl announced, “I see you made it home okay, son.”

“Erm,” the flushed, mortified boy stuttered, “I, uh, I-”

“Found someone to go home with, did you?” the bluff detective observed.

“Uh, yeah,” Justin confessed, squirming in his chair.

“Maybe you should give Debbie a call the next time,” the copper suggested, with a slight bite underneath the mild admonition. “It’s always good for someone to know where you are. I was starting to get a mite worried myself, since I hadn’t received another call from Debs - I asked her to call me back in the morning if you weren’t home yet."

Shit. Carl was right, Justin realised. Although there’d ended up being no stalker, there were still lots of nutters around - he couldn’t help picturing the weirdo who’d wanted a jizzed autograph. “I’m sorry,” he apologised to his surrogate mum. “In the heat of-” He broke off, his blush spreading as he caught himself, rephrasing, “That is, uh, I didn’t stop to think that you’d be concerned about me.”

An equally pink-cheeked Debbie admitted, “Maybe I overreacted a tad, Sunshine.” She began chuckling as she suggested, “Next time, just bring the guy home with you. Then I won’t need to ring up Carl in the middle of the night.”

“Plus, you’ll keep me and Deb entertained,” Vic teased.

As he took the seat Debbie had been motioning him toward, Carl murmured, “I intend to do a better job than that of ‘entertaining’ you, Debs.”

The others turned to stare at the policeman in surprise at the light innuendo. Carl took it in stride, however, smirking a little.

Justin wanted to jump up and down in his chair and cheer the copper on, but he restrained himself to beaming at the man. Debbie, he noticed, was uncharacteristically flustered and silent, but the teen was pretty sure she was pleased by Carl’s flirtation.

“Good for you, you sly dog,” Vic opined, leaning over to clap the detective on the back. “Never woulda suspected you had it in you.”

Remembering how Debbie and Vic had urged him to give as good as he got, Justin interjected drily, “Since I know who you’ll be out with, I guess I won’t need to worry about you, Deb.”

The still-quiet woman turned to the blond lad, her jaw dropping as she gaped at him. “You cheeky, little git!” she accused, before a hearty laugh burst out of her. “Well done, Sunshine!”

Justin glanced at Carl from the corner of his eye, uncertain how the detective would respond to his raillery, relieved when he saw the man was smiling.

“Since we’re all up bright and early, how about frittatas for breakfast, with bacon on the side?” Vic offered.

The blond teen had been about to excuse himself so he could go get some sleep, but at the mention of food, his stomach rumbled loudly.

“That’s Sunshine-speak for yes,” Debbie jested.

Everyone chuckled, Vic patting Justin on top of the head as he stood up to start cooking.

Justin yawned. “Do you need any help?” he asked the older man, blinking blearily at him.

“I’ll pass,” Vic responded drily. “Given how tuckered out you look, we’d end up with oranges in our omelettes.”

“Oh, come on,” the embarrassed teenager protested. “It was just the one time. The oranges were right next to the onions on the counter; I grabbed the wrong thing by mistake.”

“Uh-huh,” Vic chuckled, lifting an eyebrow at Justin. “And seeing how the texture of oranges and onions is so similar, that’s why you cut into the orange?”

“Give it up, Sunshine,” Debbie chortled, when Justin opened his mouth to object some more. “You’re never going to live that one down.”

“Not fair,” he grumbled, shooting a look at Carl, who sat snickering next to him.

Once he stopped laughing, the detective allowed, “I’m not much of a cook - microwaveable frozen dinners are more my speed - but even I can tell the difference between an orange and an onion.”

“You want to give me a hand then, Carl?” Vic inquired blandly. “You can chop the onions.”

The copper blanched, looking completely nonplussed. “Uh…”

Justin started giggling. He’d bet Carl would rather be faced with a week-old corpse than have to prepare a meal.

“Victor Grassi!” Debbie remonstrated, “Carl’s a guest; he only came by to check on Sunshine. You need help, I’ll-”

“Right. No one else here the detective wanted to see,” Vic hooted, doubling up with laughter.

“I may have had another motivation,” Carl acknowledged, eyes twinkling as he looked at Debbie.

The redhead blushed and glanced sidelong at her beau, causing Justin to exchange an amused glance with Vic. The way Deb and Carl were dancing around each other was sweet, but at the same time kind of weird. It would be much simpler, the perplexed teen thought, to just jump into bed and fuck. But, then again, what did he know about hetero dating rituals?

  
While Justin was sliding into bed for a much-needed morning siesta after having eaten a whole plate of Vic’s frittata, Brian was becoming aware of a more pressing need. He slitted his eyes against the light streaming in through the windows - must’ve forgotten to shut the fucking blinds he thought sourly, rolling over to reach the edge of the mattress. “Ow!” he exclaimed. Rather than his bare feet finding purchase on the floor beside his bed, his derriere had landed on the wooden flooring, with his head thunking against the edge of the coffee table.

“What the fuck?” he cursed, looking around through unfocused eyes as he rubbed at the sore spot on his noggin. It took a few moments before he realised he’d fallen asleep on his Italian Moda sofa while watching porn on his laptop, the screen of which was now a solid black since the battery had run out of power hours ago. Brian remembered being irritated that the dicks and arses - the important parts - in the on-screen orgy he was watching had been so small, and determining that he needed to replace his Sony LED TV so he’d have a proper, life-size view. After that, though, everything was a blank, which meant he’d passed out before the action really got going.

“Fuck,” he grunted, bracing one hand on the couch and the other on the coffee table as he leveraged himself to his feet. “Ow, fucking ow,” he hissed, his joints popping and the aches and pains from his stint at the gym the day before making themselves known. He really shouldn’t have tried to make up for his lack of exercise all at once, the brunet acknowledged as he staggered toward the bathroom. He couldn’t even relieve himself comfortably, a muscle spasm in his left calf necessitating that he sway back and forth on his right leg as he aimed at the bowl.

Once he’d finished urinating, he lowered the lid of the toilet bowl and sat down slowly, massaging his calf in a gingerly fashion as he waited for the stabbing pins and needles to ease. Thank fuck that damned queen wasn’t around to laugh himself silly, Brian thought irritably - he could almost hear Emmett’s mocking, “I told you, _Bri_ .” The younger man probably wouldn’t have stuck out his tongue, thumbs in his ears while wiggling his fingers at Brian, but it would have _felt_ like he was doing just that.

His cramp assuaged, Brian exited the bathroom, reasoning that some stretches would keep further muscles spasms at bay. He reached under his bed for the exercise mat he kept there - it usually did nothing more than collect dust bunnies - only to remember that he hadn’t replaced it after the burglary. The stud was tempted to skip the stretches, but then he decided he’d settle for ones he could do while standing - he didn’t feel like getting down on his knees on the hardwood floor, not without a good reason to do so anyhow, like fucking the shit out of-

The adman hastily cut off that train of thought before he sprang more of a woody. If he gave in to the urge to whack off, he’d never work out the kinks from yesterday’s gym session. Brian balanced on his left leg to perform a standing quad stretch -  bending his right leg and grasping the ankle with his right hand and then bringing it as close to his buttocks as possible. When he started listing to the side, however, he hurriedly grasped the back of one of the kitchen chairs with his left hand so he’d stay upright. “Fuck,” he groused out loud, “I shouldn’t be falling apart yet; I’ve got a good eight months till I turn thirty.”

Brian forced himself to maintain his position for twenty seconds before switching to his left leg. It wasn’t nearly long enough, but it was the best he could do, his muscles protesting the unaccustomed abuse. Dammit, the stud thought, stretching had never been his favourite thing - he needed something to motivate himself.

Turning his head slightly, he peered at the Braun coffee maker perched innocently on his counter. He’d cleaned the machine before he left the loft on Saturday morning, just in case he wanted to wrestle with making coffee for himself. During the cleansing process, he’d somehow or other ended up dropping the filter of used coffee grounds on his feet, which had been pretty gross, but at least he’d been able to shower it off before heading to Ript.

The brunet stud stared balefully at the coffee machine for a few moments before squaring his shoulders and stomping over to the counter. There was no way he was going to let a coffee maker - one Cynthia had described as idiot proof - get the better of him. “You’d better not spit hot liquid at me this time,” he threatened the machine as he poured water into the tank. “Or dump coffee grounds on me,” he added as he measured what he hoped was the right amount into the filter. Brian foolishly hadn’t listened when his blonde assistant told him how much coffee to use for a full carafe; he’d been too busy pooh-poohing the notion of making only a cup or two, which Cynthia suggested might be all he’d want some days. The adman still couldn’t imagine jump-starting his brain with a measly cup or two; he’d disregarded his employee’s absurd claim that it was the sugar, not the caffeine, that he craved.

Brian spooned _a perfectly reasonable amount_ of sugar into his AdStud mug and left it next to the Braun coffee maker. It was only when he’d resumed his stretches that he realised something wasn’t quite right - he didn’t hear the liquid dripping into the carafe. What was wrong with the bloody thing now? “German engineering, my arse,” he growled as he stalked back over to the machine. The stud deflated, though, his cheeks acquiring a red tinge when he noticed that he hadn’t turned the coffee maker on. Christ, he reflected, it was a good thing none of his friends were around, or they’d be laughing their heads off at him and speculating whether he needed an in-home caregiver. That mightn’t be so bad, he mused, as long it was a certain blond boy taking care of him; the kid could give him a blow job every morning and then make coffee...

 

As Brian was making a second pot of coffee later that morning, quite proud of himself because his first effort had been only a tad gritty, Justin woke up to someone calling, “Sunshine! Hey, Kiddo, you said you want to study-”

The blond lad shot up in the bed, the Captain Astro sheet and the comforter pooling around his waist, his vision fuzzy as he tried to blink the gumminess out his eyes. Recognising Deb sitting on the edge of his mattress, he blushed a bright red. He’d been having the most bizarre dream about Carl and Debbie’s first kiss and was grateful to be awakened before they progressed any further.

“What’s up with the crimson face, Sunshine?” the redhead chuckled, waggling her eyebrows at the teen. “Were you playing with _BOB_ when you fell asleep?”

“Fuck, no!” Justin asserted, colouring an even more vivid red. He _had_ considered giving _BOB_ a whirl, but he was out before he could give his ‘boyfriend’ more than a passing thought.

“Are you sure?” Debbie queried, tugging lightly at the coverlet as if to check for the toy. “I know there’s no such thing as _enough_ for a gay boy your age.”

The teenager’s thoughts immediately flew to Brian, which caused him to blurt out, “Not for a gay boy of _any_ age.”

“Or a straight one for that matter,” Deb chortled, reminding Justin of his dream. Fuck, he did _not_ want to think about het sex.

Fortunately, his surrogate mother gave him a break, patting his leg through the bedding and suggesting, “Best get a move on, Kiddo, if you want to study a bit before it’s time to decorate.”

“Erm,” the lad stuttered waving toward the door. “Please?”

“I keep telling you, Sunshine, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Debbie jested, reaching out to tousle his already messy hair.

“Erm,” Justin repeated, blushing some more. “Still.”

Relenting from her teasing, the redhead stood up, offering, “The coffee has just about finished perking. Want me to bring you a cup?”

“Ta, please,” the blond boy responded eagerly. “Leave it on my desk? I’m just going to take a quick shower.”

“You betcha, Kiddo.” Debbie leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room.

Hastily grabbing clean briefs, jeans, and a t-shirt, Justin trotted to the upstairs bathroom. After a night of dancing and sex, he knew he smelled anything but fresh, but he hadn’t had the energy to shower before his nap. Even though he still felt groggy, he thought he could make it through decorating and dinner before crashing again. If everyone wasn’t gone by nine-thirty, though, he was going to excuse himself and return upstairs to sleep; he was determined to sack out for at least seven hours tonight, which meant he had to be in bed no later than ten-thirty.

As he removed the tighty-whities he’d had on for far too long and stepped into the tub, sliding the shower curtain along its rod, Justin wrinkled his nose in disgust. Gah, he really did stink. He laved his whole body under the hot spray, paying particular attention to his groin and his pits, relieved to inhale nothing except his natural body odor and a hint of Irish Spring soap as he stood in front of the mirror and combed his hair after exiting the shower.

The blond strands flipped in every direction, resisting his efforts to tame them and annoying the teenager. Justin tugged at the ends, which were almost touching his shoulders, in dismay. His hair had always grown super fast, and he was going to need a haircut stat if he didn’t want to end up in detention at school. The policy about male students keeping their hair short enough that it didn’t touch their shirt collars was generally loosely enforced, but Justin knew the St James’ administration would be only too happy to make an example of him. He hated to shell out the cash, but he didn’t have much choice. Since he wouldn’t be going to the barber near his old neighbourhood, he’d have to see if Vic or Deb could recommend someone.

Back in his bedroom, Justin was chuffed to discover that his surrogate mum had left him more than just a cup of coffee - the thermos that had accompanied him to St James the day before was on the desk, along with a plate of her scrumptious brownies. The blond boy settled in at the desk, pulling out the SAT preparatory manuals that Frau Rose had suggested might be of assistance to him. The librarian had informed Justin that the materials were supposed to be kept in-house, but she saw no harm in lending them to him since no one had requested them in the last two years. “They might be too rudimentary for you,” she’d cautioned him, “but I’m unaware of any more advanced material.”

Less than fifty minutes later, Justin yawned, utterly bored. The evidence-based, critical-thinking reading and writing sections, which tested reading comprehension, grammar, vocabulary, and editing skills ostensibly took an hour and forty minutes to complete. The blond teen had used only half of the allotted time and, as he checked his answers, couldn’t find a single incorrect response. Geesh, he mused, the actual exam had better be more challenging, or he’d fall asleep during it. He’d have to tell his bestie that she shouldn’t waste much time on studying for the English part of the exam - she’d have no more trouble with this simple stuff than he had - and concentrate on the maths portion instead. Justin had already marked some of the problems in the manuals to help her prepare. A review of algebra, geometry, and trigonometry with Daphne wouldn’t hurt either of them, he reckoned.

The lad cast about for something that _would_ help him get ready for the SATs, finally remembering the ‘optional’ essay. Although he was confident that he could build a solid, persuasive argument, maybe he could use both the essay for his American Government final and the revision of his creative writing project to analyse his own writing, winding up with better papers for both classes. It might be especially interesting to use what he’d written for creative writing as a sample passage, critique whether it was effective, and then revise as needed. He’d write essays based on a couple of the passages in the SAT preparatory manuals, he determined, and then apply the same principles to his classwork.

Thirty-five minutes later, he’d completed a practice essay and was fairly satisfied that he’d presented a cogent, well-formulated analysis as well as arguments supporting his opinions. While he was considering whether to try one more topic or leave it till another day, Vic knocked on the open door to his room, announcing, “We’d better get a move on with the decorating, Kiddo, if we want to be done before dinner.”

Justin glanced at his watch, startled to discover that it was already twelve-thirty. “Why didn’t you interrupt me sooner?” he enquired, standing up and stretching a little to ease the stiffness in his limbs from sitting hunched over in the wooden chair.

“Your studies come first,” the older man chided. “Plus, Michael’s not here yet, although he rang and said he’ll be over before one o’clock. I figured we could haul the reindeer, the lights, and the other outdoor decorations outside before he arrives.”

“Okay,” Justin readily agreed, picking up the empty thermos and plate. “I’m curious to find out how you attach Rudolph, Prancer, Blitzen, and, uh-” He stuttered to a halt, blanking on the other reindeers’ names.

In a pleasant tenor, Vic sang as he descended the stairs,

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen

Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen

But do you recall?

The most famous reindeer of all?

Justin giggled, joining in,

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer  
Has a very shiny nose  
And if you ever saw it  
You would even say it glows.

Debbie emerged from the kitchen, singing the rest of the song with them in a raspy mezzo-contralto.

When they belted out the final lines,

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,  
You'll go down in history!

Harley’s voice overlapped theirs, only the budgie chirped, “ _Briaaan_ ,” instead of of ‘Rudolph,’ causing them to burst out laughing.

Vic chortled, “We’ll have to tell Brian that he’s going down in history for having a red nose-”

“Instead of a big dick,” Deb interjected, sending them off into more gales of laughter.

Justin slyly suggested, “Maybe we could practice _Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ with Harley, and then, at Christmas, we could sing it for Gus-”

“Fuck,” Debbie wheezed, “We’ve got to do that. Can’t you just see Brian’s face if the tyke confuses his daddy with a reindeer?”

The teenager smirked. “We’ll just have to convince Brian that possessing a big, red nose means you’ve got a…”

“...a big, red dick,” the siblings chorused along with him.

“A glow-in-the-dark dick,” Debbie deadpanned as she took the dishes from Justin. “Sounds about right for the Stud of Liberty Avenue.”

Chuckling, Vic led the way to the coat rack. “C’mon, Sunshine. Let’s put on our coats and gloves and lug the reindeer out of the living room.”

“I’ll keep you in cookies and tea,” Debbie vowed, bustling into the kitchen when the oven timer buzzed.

“I’m glad we got these from the attic before I headed to Babylon last night,” Justin observed a few minutes later as they manoeuvred one of the reindeer down the hallway, through the front door, and out onto the lawn.

“Yeah,” Vic concurred, panting a little. “It was worth it, even if we couldn’t watch the telly last night, with these life-size caribou taking up every square inch.”

“Um,” Justin questioned as they grabbed hold of the next one, “is everything about these beasties, er, life-sized and anatomically correct?” The teen could swear that a blunt object was prodding him in the thigh as they carried the reindeer outside.

“Well, I’ve never gotten up close and personal with a real caribou,” Vic disclosed, “but I remember Sis burning the phone line between here and New York years ago, babbling about how these critters were supposed to proportioned exactly like real ones.” The older man paused for a moment, dragging in air before exhaling, his breath creating cloudy puffs that soon dissipated. “Christ, it’s cold,” he complained, coughing hard.

Concerned about the hacking cough, Justin suggested, “Maybe we should wait for Michael to lug the rest of these out of the house.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Vic jested. “Just not used to breathing fresh air.”

The teenager was reassured by the steady cadence of the other man’s voice and the healthy pink in his cheeks. He smiled at Vic, querying, “How do you tell these reindeer apart, anyhow?”

The older man shrugged. “Fucked if I know. I always figured the two largest were Donner and Blitzen, although I don’t know which is which. I figure they’re harnessed closest to the sleigh, so their weight can help pull it forward.”

“Hmm, then these two must be Comet and Cupid,” Justin guessed after they’d hauled the rest of the caribou out of the house.

“Yep.” Vic pointed to the next pairings. “And there’s Dasher and Dancer, with Prancer and Vixen at the forefront, right behind Rudolph.”

It suddenly struck the teen that the littlest reindeer must be kind of lonely. “It hardly seems fair,” he mused, “that Rudolph is the only one without a buddy.”

Vic winked at him. “Personally, I’ve always thought he was getting it on with-” He broke off, his jaw dropping as a gaudy, metallic gold sports car rolled down the street toward them.

“What the fuck is that?” Justin wondered. Talk about bad taste in cars, he thought. It looked like a pimpmobile. When the vehicle pulled into Debbie’s driveway and Michael stepped out, he had to bite his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Dressed in a Captain Astro twinset - a garish jacket and tee - and high-water jeans, Michael didn’t look in the least like he belonged behind the wheel of a sporty car, even one as tacky as this.

“Isn’t it great?” the short brunet shouted as he trotted over to them.

Neither Vic nor Justin uttered a word.

“Uncle Vic!” His eyes glittering with excitement, Michael tugged at the older man’s arm.

Vic snorted, rousing himself from his trance. “Why’re you driving that-?” He stopped speaking, apparently at a loss for words to describe the Mazda.

Jiggling from one foot to the other, as if he needed to pee, Michael beamed at his uncle, reiterating, “Isn’t it great? It’s an early Christmas present from David - my Honeybun wants me to be able to get around when he needs his Porsche.” The short brunet turned to gaze adoringly at his new car. “My Stud Muffin has such good taste, and he knew exactly what I’d want!” Michael shrilled.

Vic shot a pained look at Justin, the blond surmising it had as much to do with the nauseating endearments as with the pimpish vehicle. This must be the first time Michael had subjected his uncle to the pet names, Justin realised. He couldn’t blame the older man for looking like he wanted to hurl; _Honeybun_ had the same effect on him, whilst _Stud Muffin_ made him want to laugh. If he and Brian were still together, he’d be tempted to use that endearment on his ex, just to see the man’s reaction.

“Don’t you just love it?” Michael enthused, finally succeeding in towing Vic a couple steps closer to the car. “No one else in the gang has anything like my Miata!”

Justin giggled. Brian, Ted, Emmett - none of them would be caught dead with that monstrosity. Em might drive something sassy and colourful, but it would be a fun reflection of his personality, like Vincent was for Debbie.

“I’ll take you for a spin!” Michael crowed at his uncle, dragging him toward the vehicle.

Fetching up against the passenger door, Vic blocked his nephew’s efforts to get him into the car. “Michael!’ he yelled a reminder, “It’s already the second Sunday after Thanksgiving. We have to get the Christmas decorations up. You don’t want to disappoint your mum, do you? She’s so excited that we’re doing this together, for the first time in years.”

A disappointed expression flitted across Michael’s face before his shoulders sagged in resignation. “You’re right,” he acknowledged. “Besides, I can always take you for a ride later this week.”

Vic glanced at Justin over Michael’s shoulder, mouthing, “Over my dead body,” making the teenager giggle again. This was definitely one of those times, he thought, when he was glad Michael didn’t like him - the brunet wouldn’t be issuing an invitation for him to go for a ride in the pimpmobile anytime soon.

Michael scanned the front yard, stating, “Oh, that’s cool. You’ve already got the reindeer out here, Uncle Vic. I’ll just get the ladder from the garage and some rope so you and I can hoist them up onto the roof.”

The brunet trotted over to the garage, opened the side door, and vanished inside, reappearing after a couple minutes, ladder in hand, rope looped over one shoulder, and a tool belt wrapped around his waist. “You want to be on the roof or down here?” he asked his uncle.

“I’ll let you young’uns clamber around on the roof,” Vic declared, “while I wind the rope around the reindeer.”

“Huh?” Michael glanced toward the house, his countenance brightening. “Is Brian here to help? I’ll go tell him we’re ready.”

Vic shook his head in fond exasperation. “Brian’s not here, Michael. He and Ted begged off because there’s lots for them to do before they can open Brian’s new agency.”

Michael peered around as if trying to find someone else.

Justin rolled his eyes. He might as well be invisible for all the notice Michael was taking of him.

“I meant Sunshine, obviously,” Vic added drily, motioning toward the teenager.

“B- but,” Michael sputtered, “it’s always been you, me, and whoever else from the gang is free.”

“Em got called in to replace a sick coworker at Torso,” Vic explained. “And before you ask, the girls are busy with Gus.”

Michael glanced dismissively at Justin. “I guess he’s better than nothing, but don’t you think it would be better if he stayed down here while we get the reindeer set up? The _kid_ ,” he sneered, “would be next to useless on the roof.”

Justin paled slightly. It hadn’t fully dawned on him until now that he’d be climbing around atop the house, and he couldn’t help feeling a bit of trepidation, especially since his sneakers wouldn’t provide him with any traction on the slanted, slippery roof.

“Look at him,” Michael jeered, waving at Justin. “He’s obviously scared shitless.”

“I am not!” the blond objected, embarrassed when his voice emerged at a higher than normal pitch. Even if he was a little freaked out, there was no way he’d let Michael show him up.

“Sunshine’ll do fine,” Vic insisted.

Michael still looked dubious, but he shrugged in acceptance. After arranging the ladder in front of the porch, he ordered, “Follow me,” scampering up the rungs and onto the overhang.

Justin hesitated.

“Go on,” Vic encouraged him, smirking at the teen.

The blond’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the older man, suddenly suspecting Vic had orchestrated it deliberately so he’d have to team up with Michael.

“Are you coming, _Boy Wonder_?” Michael shouted.

The taunt got Justin moving, although he ascended the ladder much more slowly than Michael had done.

Once he’d joined Michael, the brunet tied one end of the rope to a hook on the edge of the roof, before dropping the other end down to Vic. They hauled up the reindeer one by one, until all nine of them were atop the porch eave.

“I’ll start stringing the lights,” Vic called out, “while you boys fix the caribou in place.” The older man folded up the ladder and carried it toward one end of the house. “Let me know when you’re ready to climb down, and I’ll bring the ladder back.”

“Okay,” Michael shouted. He got behind one of the two largest reindeer, pushing it ahead of himself as he easily ascended the roof toward the chimney. “Bring the other big guy, would’ya?” he called over his shoulder.

Justin tried to imitate what Michael was doing, pushing the reindeer as he took a couple of tentative steps. But then he made the mistake of glancing toward the ground, which suddenly seemed really far away, and froze in place.

“Justin?” he heard Michael inquire long seconds later, his voice unusually gentle. “I guess you haven’t climbed around on a roof before, huh?”

The blond managed to tear his eyes away from the frozen, snow-covered grass in Debbie’s yard, turning his head to gaze at Michael. Dumbfounded by the unaccustomed kindness, Justin stared at him for a moment without saying anything, trying to determine whether the man had some sort of ulterior motive. After all, the man had been gloating to him about Brian’s ‘other blond’ not even twenty-four hours ago. “Not unless you count sitting on the ledge outside Daphne’s bedroom window so we could sneak a cigarette,” he acknowledged wryly when he didn’t discern any antagonism in Michael’s eyes.

“I kinda like it up here,” Michael revealed. “Brian and I used to hang out on the roof, sharing secrets, smoking weed, pretending to be superheroes.”

For the first time, Justin understood why Captain Astro must have appealed to a teenaged Michael so much. The comic book hero must’ve made the short brunet feel like he was capable of anything. If Michael was actually going to be agreeable, the teen decided he could make an effort to do the same, especially since it would please both Vic and Debbie. “Sounds like you had fun,” he commented, smiling at the other man.

“We did,” Michael agreed, grinning at what was clearly a good memory, before suggesting, “Why don’t you let me get ‘Donner’ or ‘Blitzen,’ whichever it is, fixed in place, and then you can hand each of the reindeer to me, going from the largest to the smallest? There’s no need for you to actually climb up on the roof.”

“Ta,” Justin smiled at Michael gratefully, rather startled at how kind he was being. “Um, wait. Shouldn’t Santa’s sleigh be up there by the chimney?” the teen wondered. He hadn’t realised until just now that it was missing.

“Nope.” Michael elaborated, “Ma told me the sled wouldn’t add anything to the ambience - not even if it was piled high with giant dildos. She toyed with the idea of getting the Santa who’s falling into the chimney headfirst, with Donner or Blitzen snagging his pants in their teeth. But she decided no one wanted to look at an old, fat guy’s hairy arse, so why bother?”

“Ugh,” Justin chuckled. “That really doesn’t sound appealing.”

The process went fairly quickly after that, Michael showing him how to open and close the brackets that were bolted to the roof to hold the caribou closest to the overhang in place.

“Need this?” a voice inquired once all the reindeer had been bolted down.

The blond turned around, having gotten a little more comfortable moving around on the flat overhang, to see Vic peering at him over the edge of the roof, holding out a long, heavy-duty electrical cord.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Michael heaved out a gusty sigh. “Ma won’t be happy if the queers of Liberty Avenue don’t drive by to rubberneck at Rudolph and his friends.”

Justin tried to puzzle out what was going to happen as Michael ran the cord from one reindeer to the next, plugging it into the left, rear hoof of each critter, letting the remainder dangle over the edge of the eave.

“You should climb down first,” Michael requested, motioning toward the ladder.

The blond boy held onto the sides of the ladder tightly, making his way down carefully, and letting out a relieved breath when both his feet were firmly planted on the ground. In contrast, Michael nimbly moved from one rung to the next, balancing easily on one foot as he leaned forward to affix the electrical cord to one of the posts supporting the overhang. Hopping off the ladder, he knelt down and plugged the cord into an outlet that was hidden by the post. “You ready?” he called to his uncle.

It was bloody maddening to have Michael be so much better at coping with heights, the teen thought, his lower lip sticking out a little. He immediately consoled himself that the spoiled git had to be better at _something_.

“Come over here,” Vic urged Justin to join him on the sidewalk. “You can’t get the full effect if you’re too close to the house.”

“Okay, power it up,” Vic shouted to Michael.

“Holy shit!” Justin gaped at the display as Michael joined him and Vic. He barely noticed the rainbow of lights along the roof and around the windows, all his attention on the reindeer. The caribous’ bodies were brightly illuminated against the cloudy, grey sky, with each of them sporting a large, pulsating dong in a different colour. Rudolph’s shaft was red, of course, and matched his very shiny nose. “Whoa,” the teen choked out, pointing at the reindeer’s other glowing appendage, “it wasn’t just Rudolph’s ‘nose so bright’ that guided Santa.”

“I hadn’t seen those reindeer since you were thirteen, Michael,” Vic roared with laughter, “until Sunshine and I discovered them whilst cleaning the attic. I remember coming home from New York for Christmas, and seeing them prancing across the roof for the first time.”

“Shit, don’t remind me,” Michael groaned. “I’d just realized I was gay, and was freaking out about it. Talking to you on the phone helped, Uncle Vic, but it wasn’t the same as having you here.”

Chuckling, Vic gestured toward the reindeer, “Deb wanted to show you it was nothing to be ashamed of. Sis told me later that she had received a catalog full of kinky holiday decorations, so she ordered these reindeer and had them mounted on the roof.”

“Ehm,” Justin spluttered, gawking at the well-endowed reindeer, “what a unique way to show her support.”

“I was so fucking embarrassed,” Michael reminisced. “I kept sneaking into the house via the back door, not wanting anyone to know I lived here. When Ma told me my balls were just as big as the ones these caribou are sporting, however, I did feel better about being gay.”

“Uh-huh,” Justin muttered, still staring in shock at the mammals’ engorged pricks. He suddenly felt a surge of admiration for Michael. “You _did_ have big balls,” he stated in awe. “I would have flipped out if these dudes had been atop my roof when I was thirteen.”

The teen mused to himself that although it would have been great to have his parents accept his sexuality, he might have run away from home if that had happened to him. Imagining the expressions on Craig and Jen’s faces, however, he began to giggle helplessly.

“You did become more comfortable with being gay,” Vic pointed out, “and you’ll have a great tale to tell your kids and grandkids.”

“How am I gonna have kids?” Michael gaped incredulously at his uncle.

“You can adopt, Michael, or have a surrogate carry a child. It’s a lot easier for a gay man to have children now than it was ever before.”

“Maybe the Merry Munchers would like to have you father a baby for them,” Justin proposed. He strongly doubted either Lindsay or Melanie would want Michael’s sperm anywhere near them, but you never knew with lesbians.

“Ew, gross!” The brunet scrunched up his nose, looking revolted by the notion. “If I have a daughter, I want one who’s a proper girly girl, not one who’s a butch mechanic.”

Right, Justin mused, rolling his eyes discreetly. As if that was the way genetics worked.

“Given that the Miata is known for needing constant repairs, a mechanic would come in handy,” Vic interjected slyly.

“That won’t be necessary,” Michael averred. “David has the money to have my _Galaxy Lad_ regularly maintained at a garage.”

“What?” Vic questioned, clearly shocked. “You didn’t name your first car _Captain Astro_?”

“Of course not!” Michael retorted, incensensed. “I’m a bottom, Uncle Vic!”

Justin’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. What did being a bottom have to do with the name for his car?

Vic must’ve been equally clueless because he queried, “What do you mean?”

“I’m a bottom,” Michael repeated, “like Galaxy Lad. So, my car has to be _Galaxy Lad_ , not Captain Astro.”

As if that made matters clearer, the perplexed teen mused.

“Huh.” Vic looked between the car and his nephew. “I still don’t get it, Michael.”

“It’s really simple,” Michael stated earnestly. “I’m a bottom, so I can’t take Captain Astro - a through-and-through top - for a ride.” When both Vic and Justin continued to stare at him in confusion, he gestured at the blond. “It would be like Justin naming his first car something like _TopAd_. It would never work since that’s a ewermism for Brian. Brian’s a top, so Boy Wonder would never take him for a test drive.”

Justin could barely contain his hilarity at the short brunet’s mangling of ‘euphemism’ and his oddball ‘logic’. The weird thing, the teenager reflected, was that Michael really believed what he was saying - for a change, he wasn’t being malicious.

“Huh,” Vic grunted again, shaking his head as if to clear away cobwebs. “You should certainly give your Miata whatever name you like best.”

Michael beamed at his uncle, obviously considering that to be approbation of his choice.

“Well,” Vic remarked, rubbing his gloved hands together briskly as he eyed the well-endowed reindeer. “We’ve made a good start. Shall we go through the rest of the Christmas decorations and see what we can add to help Santa find our house?”

“I’m all in,” Michael inserted eagerly as they trooped into the house.

“How about some cookies and milk?” Debbie offered, dusting flour-bedecked hands on her pinny as she came out of the kitchen, from which tantalising aromas were emanating.

“Aren’t we supposed to save those for Father Christmas?” Vic quipped.

“Can’t let them go stale.” the redhead countered, setting a plate heaped high with four different types of sweets in the middle of the table before turning to face the three men. “Don’t you dare!” she reprimanded Michael, who’d immediately reached behind her to snag one of the treats. “Wash your mitts first!”

“Christ, Ma!” Michael complained. “How’d you know what I was doing?”

“She inherited her psychic abilities from our Nonna,” Vic jested. He’d used the distraction provided by his nephew to snatch one of the cookies for himself. With a wicked grin at his sister, he stuffed it into his mouth.

“Pshaw,” the redhead cackled. “Like it takes a psychic to catch boys sticking their hands in the cookie jar.”

Justin, who’d washed his hands while Michael and Vic were trying to get the best of Debbie, grabbed the milk from the fridge and began pouring it into the mugs she’d put on the table.

“Ta, Sunshine,” Debs praised. “It’s good to see one of you has manners.”

“Suck-up,” Michael accused, a genial smile removing any possible sting from the words.

Could there be an alien inhabiting the brunet’s body? Justin wondered. Michael had been _nice_ to him for _hours_ ; not only was it a record, it must be putting quite a strain on the muppet’s psyche. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted, the lad decided, shrugging and taking a seat at the table. Now closer to eye level with the mugs he’d just filled, he blinked at the entwined figures on the bright red mug in shock. “Erm, is, uh,” he spluttered, “is that _Santa_ rogering one of his elves?”

“St Nick will diddle anything that moves,” Vic chuckled. “Anything _male_ , that is.”

“Mrs Claus is just his beard,” Debbie claimed, taking a seat across from the stunned blond.

“You must have the one with _Bushy Evergreen_ ,” Michael interjected. “That elf is a total slut.”

Debbie began to laugh uproariously, Vic and Michael soon joining in. “Christ, Kiddo,” she marveled, “you should see your face.”

“I _never_ wanted to think about Santa getting it on,” the pink-cheeked blond muttered, “whether it’s with Mrs Claus, an elf, or-”

“A reindeer?” Vic inserted, turning his mug to face the aghast boy. “This one’s my fave. Personally, I think Santa, Comet, and Cupid have a threesome going.”

“You’ve scarred me for life,” Justin grumbled. “I’m never gonna think of that tubby, old man the same way again.”

“Santa deserves to get his rocks off, same as anyone else.” Michael defended the Christmas icon.

“Uh, sure, I guess.” the teenager agreed. “But I’d rather not visualise the old guy going at it.”

“Don’t be such a prude, Kiddo,” Vic ribbed him. “ _Older_ people _do it_ , too, ya know.”

“ _Eww_ ,” Justin and Michael protested in tandem.

“Santa can’t be jolly if he doesn’t get his jollies,” Debbie chortled. When the terrible pun produced a pained look on the men’s faces, she relented, “Okay, okay. Enough of _Babbo Natale_ ’s sex life-”

“Does St Nick have a helper, uh, _along for the ride_?” Justin frowned in confusion, cheeks pinkening at furthering the risqué wordplay.

“No, Kiddo,” Vic chuckled. “ _Babbo Natale_ is Italian for Santa Claus. And then there’s _San Nicolò di Bari_ for Saint Nicholas.”

“Um, okay.” The teen blushed more furiously. “I thought _Babbo_ must be one of Santa’s elves.”

Deb, Vic, and Michael burst out laughing, the short brunet teasing, “You do turn an awfully pretty pink, Boy Wonder.”

Shit. The curse of having such fair skin, Justin mused.

Fortunately, Debbie redirected everyone’s attention, holding up two different cookies. “Let’s talk about the other appetite men have. Would Santa prefer the anisette or the amaretti? I need to decide which ones belong on the platter we’ll leave out for _Babbo Natale_.”

Justin dutifully taste-tested the sweets. “You should include both. In fact, the _amaretti_ ,” he paused to make sure he’d pronounced it correctly, receiving approving nods from Deb and Vic, “remind me more of macarons.”

He grinned when he got more approving nods and an appreciative, “Good taste buds, Kiddo,” from Vic.

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like the anisette one, though - maybe I should try another to be sure I like the hint of liquorice in it?” the boy suggested cheekily.

Before Debbie could respond, Michael recommended around a mouthful of a flat, waffle-patterned disc, “You’ve gotta try one of the pizzelles.”

“That’s about as Italian as it gets,” Vic seconded his nephew’s recommendation as Justin bit into one of the wafers. “You’ll notice we use anise and almonds in a lot of our sweets, Sunshine.”

“And our liqueurs,” Debbie added. “We’ll have to break out a bottle of amaretto after dinner tonight.”

“Maybe we should take a vote on whether St Nick would prefer milk or amaretto with his cookies,” Vic proposed, tongue in cheek.

“Nope,” the redhead promptly vetoed that idea. “If _Babbo_ got tiddly, we’d wake up to a fat man in a red suit passed out on our sofa, snoring and farting. And then everyone in the fucking Pitts would descend on us looking for their gifts.”

“Father Christmas is a traditional sort of bloke, right?” Justin questioned, reaching out for the only cookie he hadn’t tried. “So he’ll want milk with his cookies.”

“His stache does a good job of hiding the evidence, though,” Vic observed, his eyes sparkling as he stared at the blond.

At first Justin worried that he had a zit forming on his face - he rarely got one, but when he did, it always looked like a meteor - then he realised he must have white residue on his upper lip. “Oh!” he exclaimed, sticking out his tongue and licking away the milk moustache, before taking a bite of the round cookie that resembled a doughnut hole. “Fuck, that’s good,” he moaned in appreciation, quickly consuming the rest of the treat. “What is it?”

“Zeppole,” Michael responded, snatching one of the treats for himself. “It’s got cheese in it.”

“Ricotta,” Debbie clarified. Tipping her head at her brother, she praised, “Vic you make a version with pumpkin that’s to die for. How about whipping up a batch?”

“I’ll test them,” Michael offered, grinning at his uncle. “Make sure they’re worthy of Santa.”

“If there are any left after the taste test,” Justin volunteered, “on Christmas Eve, I’ll show Gus how to arrange them, the milk, and the other cookies on the end table nearest the tree, so St Nick can find them.”

“As long as someone warns the little guy,” Michael teased, “that he won’t get any pressies in the morning because his ‘Jushun’ got hungry during the night and gobbled them all down before _Babbo_ got his snack, causing the fatso to depart in a huff.”

Debbie shook a scarlet-tinted fingernail at Justin. “Naughty blonds will be punished,” she stated severely.

Justin blinked at her innocently before licking his lips salaciously. “How?” he inquired.

“I certainly won’t ask Brian to spank you,” Deb cackled. “You’d enjoy that far too much, Sunshine.”

Justin blushed a fiery red. He might be royally pissed off at Brian, but that ‘punishment’ sounded intriguing.

“Even if you couldn’t sit down afterward,” Michael kidded.

Justin was shocked that the sexual innuendo about him and Brian hadn’t sent Michael into a tizzy. That was unheard of. If the man hadn’t been possessed by an alien, maybe he was on drugs?

“You boys had better finish up the decorating, while I get dinner started,” Debbie advised. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

“You’re such a drill sergeant,” Vic teased his sibling, nevertheless standing up and ferrying his empty dishes over to the sink.

“Hup, two, three, four,” the redhead barked, chivvying the men out of the kitchen.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,” Vic said as they eyed the cardboard boxes he and Justin had stacked in the hallway the previous evening.

The three men crouched down and began opening the boxes, uncovering a plethora of LGBT-themed Christmas decorations - cock-and-ball wreaths, knitted rainbow snowflake ornaments, candy-cane dicks to embellish the yard, and a nativity set, which included two Marys as well as Joseph, a tow-headed Christ child nestled in rainbow-tinted hay, two wise women and one wise man.

“I’d say Joseph was living a straight bloke’s wet dream,” Vic snorted, “if it wasn’t for the fact that he obviously couldn’t get it up for either Mary. Instead of reveling in a ménage à trois, he ended up with two beards.”

“That makes more sense than Mary being a virgin.” Michael nodded sagely. “I mean, what kind of guy - straight or gay - would go without sex, unless he was a eunuch?”

“I know, right?” Justin giggled.

“Aha, here’s Debbie,” Vic commented gleefully, pulling out a colourfully garbed statuette of a matronly shepherdess with curly red hair.

Grinning at the figurine that did, indeed, resemble his surrogate mother, Justin remarked, “She _is_ awfully good at taking care of her flock.”

“Yeah,” Michael chimed in proudly, “that’s my Ma.”

“Couldn’t ask for a better sister,” Vic murmured, stroking his thumb along the shepherdess’ robes. “Don’t tell her I said that,” he then jested.

“Like she hasn’t got a clue how you feel.” Michael playfully poked his uncle in the ribs.

“Gotta keep it that way,” Vic insisted gruffly, handing ‘Debbie’ to his nephew. “Why don’t you do the honours and arrange the nativity on the fireplace mantel?” he suggested.

“We should do it together,” Michael replied.

“I could take a couple of photos of you with the Polaroid,” Justin ventured. “Debs could put them on the fridge for now and then start a new scrapbook to go with the albums we unearthed during the attic cleaning. Extend the Grassi-Novotny pictorial saga,” the teenager enthused.

“You found photo albums of the family?” Michael queried eagerly. “Were there any photos of my dad, John Michael Novotny? He was a lieutenant in the U.S. Army.”

“Um, I don’t know,” Justin answered. “The one I leafed through mainly had photos of your great-grandparents and your grandda.”

“Where are the albums?” Michael inquired. “I bet the one Ma’s been searching for-”

Vic interrupted, “I’m afraid the photo album with the pictures of John wasn’t among the ones we found.”

Michael looked horribly disappointed, almost as if he might break down and cry. “Are you sure?”

Laying a consoling hand on his nephew’s shoulder, Vic asserted, “There’d be no missing the cover on the album your mum mislaid. It was a wild explosion of flowers, with _Groovy_ emblazoned across the front. Debbie bought it during her teenage hippie phase.”

Something seemed off to Justin, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was just that way Vic had paused for a millisecond before he said ‘John,’ as if he wasn’t quite familiar with the name of Michael’s dad. Vic must’ve known the guy, though, since he was four years younger than Deb and would’ve been there when the lieutenant was squiring his sister around.

“It’s hard,” Michael sighed, “not having any mementos of my dad, except for the photo mum keeps on the fireplace. I barely even know anything about him, other than that he died in Vietnam in 1970, two weeks after I was born, killed instantly when his jeep ran over a landmine. The purple heart medal draped over the photo frame is the one he was awarded posthumously.”  
Justin couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. “Maybe you could get copies of photos, even a couple of small keepsakes, from your dad’s relatives?” he suggested.

Michael didn’t say anything, burying his face in the green sweater covering his uncle’s chest and letting out a sound suspiciously like a sob.

Shit, Justin worried. He hadn’t meant to make Michael feel worse, but he’d stuck his foot in it somehow.

“John” - again the blond lad heard an infinitesimal pause in Vic’s voice - “was an only son and came from a very small family. Debbie never met his parents, who passed away a few years before he was shipped overseas.”

It seemed weird to the teenager that Debbie had never met any of John’s relatives, distant or not, and the man must’ve had some friends. Surely, they would’ve been glad to share any keepsakes they had, for her to pass on to John’s son. He didn’t want to compound Michael’s distress even more, however, so he decided he’d quiz Vic about it another time.

Patting his nephew comfortingly on the back, Vic urged, “The photos are a good idea. Let’s get the other decorations up first, though; then it’ll really look like Christmas.”

“I’m so glad you guys have an artificial tree,” the blond jabbered, attempting to take Michael’s mind off of his dad, as he used a pen knife to slice through the tape holding shut an oblong box marked _tree_. “The live ones make my allergies act up something fierce - my nose runs constantly; my eyes water; and I get these dark circles under my eyes that make it look like I was stupid enough to get in the ring with Muhammad Ali, who ‘stung me like a bee’. Craig,” he concluded bitterly, “always belittled me for being a ‘sissy,’ claiming that live trees don’t have mould spores and dust mites the way artificial ones do.”

“Hey, maybe you should let me and Uncle Vic take care of that,” Michael offered with one last sniffle. “You don’t want the tree to set off an allergy attack.”

“Um, okay.” Justin smiled at the brunet. “I should be all right, though; my dad had it backward. It’s the live trees that accumulate dust the easiest. As long as an artificial tree is stored in some kind of container in a dry place, dust mites won’t collect. Never mind that artificial greenery doesn’t spread pollen the way live trees and wreaths do.”

“Michael’s right,” Vic observed. “There’s no point in taking a chance. We’ll wipe down the branches before we put the pieces of the tree together; that way we can be sure there’s no dust on it.”

“Did you want me to supervise - from a safe distance, of course?” the blond joked.

“Nice try, Sunshine,” the older man joshed. “You can help hang the ornaments once the tree has been assembled. In the meantime, open the boxes labeled _cock canes_ and _erect_ them wherever it strikes your fancy in the front yard.”

 

“Well done, boys!” Debbie lauded their efforts later that afternoon as she examined the bannister, around which greenery decorated with bright red ornaments had been wound, and then the living room, which was covered with holiday tchotchkes. “Let’s go say ‘hi’ to Rudolph and the other reindeer.” she suggested, stepping over the sill when Justin held the door open for her.

The blond heard chuckling from behind him, but he had no idea what it was about until after Deb had grabbed him by the shoulders, planted a lipsticky kiss on one cheek, and then released him.

“What?” he grumbled halfheartedly, scrubbing at his face with the palm of his hand as more laughter resounded in the hallway.

“You were closest, Sunshine,” she cackled, pointing above his head, where a sprig of cock-and-ball mistletoe dangled, apparently a companion to the wreath which he’d watched Michael place on the door only a few minutes ago. When he’d put up the mistletoe, however, Justin had no idea, but he was certain the other two men had set him up, so that he’d be the one to cross the threshold behind Debbie. Craning his head around, he maturely stuck out his tongue at the laughing uncle and nephew, before following Deb out the door.

“Vic?” the redhead called out, looking around the yard and counting, “Ten, eleven, twelve,” her brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Didn’t we still have a baker’s dozen of the _cock canes_ last year?”

“I thought they were all there when we packed them up, Sis,” her brother confirmed. “I didn’t count them, however, so one might have gone missing.”

“Damn. Guess I can’t blame the fags of Liberty Avenue for coveting those huge cocks,” Debbie chuckled. “I’ll just have to order a couple replacements.”

Justin grinned to himself as they crossed the street to look up at the roof. Wait for it, he thought.

“Holy shit!” Deb shouted.

“Boy Wonder?” Michael’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he looked between the roof and the teenager in astonishment.

“I couldn’t let Rudolph be the only one without some kind of _playmate_.” Justin shrugged nonchalantly. He was proud of himself for climbing on the roof and planting the thirteenth cock cane right in front of the smallest reindeer, making it look as if he were licking at a tasty treat.

“That’s technically not in the front yard,” Vic joked, clapping the youngster on the back. “Perfect placement, though - I’m amazed none of us thought of it before now.”

“Thank fuck you weren’t around when I was a teenager.” Michael shook his head ruefully. “I’d have died of embarrassment over a prank like that one.”

“You fit right into this family,” Debbie chortled, “with that creative idea. Christ,” she added as a gust of cold wind ruffled their clothing and hair, “we’re a bunch of ninnies, coming out here without our winter gear. Let’s get back inside and warm up.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Vic announced once they were indoors, shivering and looking rather tired. “These old bones of mine feel the cold more than they used to.”

“The young ’uns can warm up with an egg flip while you’re showering,” Debbie decided, patting her brother on the cheek. “I’ll have one ready for you when you get out. That’ll put some color in your face.”

“As long as there’s plenty of brandy and rum,” Vic agreed, obviously cheered by the prospect of a healthy dose of alcohol.

Vic traipsed upstairs, and after filling two of the ‘wicked Santa’ mugs with the beaten egg, milk, sugar, and alcohol mixture, Debbie shooed them into the living room. “Put on some Christmas carols,” she ordered, “so I can sing along while I finish up dinner.”

Removing a few albums from their covers, Michael fiddled with the record player, stacking the LPs on the turntable spindle. “Geesh,” he carped, “mum needs to enter the twenty-first century and get a CD player. These vinyl records are getting scratched, being stacked like this.”

“Look at it this way,” the teenager jested, “you could be cranking the Victrola we rescued from the attic. Great ambience, but your arm gets tired awfully quick.”

Both Michael and Justin started laughing when the first song turned out to be Bing Crosby crooning _Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer_.

“You know,” Michael imparted somewhat tentatively, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that drawing you did for my birthday. It’s _so_ cool. I even got a photo of me holding it, with Captain Astro on one side and Brian on the other. Like Brian suggested, I’m having both the sketch and the photo professionally framed, so I can display them side by side.”

Suspecting Brian had noticed details in the drawing that would have slid right by an oblivious, hero-worshipping Michael - and wondering if the adman had taken a cue from them - the teenager stifled a snicker. “I’d like to see it when it’s done,” he said honestly.

“Sure,” Michael responded. “Maybe David and I can have you over sometime. You know, when you do come over, we could talk about producing a comic together. I’d write the dialogue - I’ve already penned some great lines - and you could do the artwork.”

Shit. Justin felt a little bad about having to turn him down since Michael had been behaving fairly decently toward him this afternoon. There was no way he could add one more thing to his schedule, however; he was already stretched too thin. And, ugh, the idea of being tied to the other man as a sort of business partner wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate - he could only imagine the headaches that would ensue.

“I knew you’d want to do it!” Michael crowed when he didn’t respond right away. “With me providing the dialogue, it’s bound to be a success! The drawings don’t even have to be all that great.”

The teenager, who’d been trying to formulate a polite refusal, felt his sympathy ebbing away, with Michael diminishing the importance of the artwork by considering it secondary to the dialogue. “Um, I really can’t do it, Michael,” he belatedly replied, unable to bring himself to say he was sorry, when he really wasn’t.

“Whatta you mean, you can’t do it?” Michael sneered. “If you can work at the diner, go-go dance, and freelance for Brian, you’ve definitely got the time to help me.”

Justin noticed that Michael had left out his studies entirely; the man must not think they were important. Then again, from what he’d gathered, Michael might not have graduated from high school if Brian hadn’t helped him with his homework. So, his schoolwork probably didn’t rank very high with Michael.

“Look,” the brunet spoke in a more conciliatory tone, trying to convince him, “you’re not ready to work for someone as demanding as Brian. He’ll never accept the art you produce, but I won’t be as picky since it’s just a back-up for what I write. You can develop your skills working on the comic and, who knows, maybe in a couple years you can create some halfway decent doodles for some mediocre advertising agency.”

There was the Michael he knew and didn’t like, the blond lad thought disdainfully. Either the alien bodysnatcher had fled, or the meds had worn off. Rather than defend his artwork, Justin wordlessly stood up and left the room, heading for the kitchen, hoping Debs might like some help after all.

 

After checking the dashboard clock to be sure he’d allowed plenty of time to make a couple of stops on the way to Debbie’s house, Brian manoeuvred the jeep away from the curb. He actually wanted to be on time for dinner, maybe even turn up a little early, so he could observe Justin and better plan _Operation Twat Retrieval_ . The brat should’ve gotten over his strife by now, the adman figured, and have started hankering after his cock; there was no way, after all, that a twink named _Bob_ could possibly compete with Brian’s magnificent nine inches.

It took less than ten minutes for him to reach Liberty Avenue’s GLBT bookstore. He smirked when a vehicle pulled out of a slot right in front of the shop, musing that it was about time his parking karma returned. But then, an ancient, rusted VW bug zipped around him and slid into the space. Brian rolled down the window to cuss out the other driver, but hurriedly rolled it back up when the Volkswagen belched exhaust out of a tailpipe that looked like it was attached to the vehicle with duct tape. “Fuck!” he grumbled, smacking a palm against the steering wheel when the gray smoke cleared. The driver had already disappeared into the bookstore, and since he hadn’t gotten a good look at the person, he wouldn’t be able to track them down and ream them out like he wanted to.

Six more minutes ticked past while he drove around looking for a parking place, finally easing into one in the tiny lot of Cork and Bottle, the wine bar/emporium which was going to be his next stop. It probably would’ve been faster to walk from his apartment building to the bookstore and the wine shop, but he hadn’t wanted to chance breaking the bottles if he slipped on the icy sidewalk. He also hadn’t felt like bundling up to brave the arctic temperatures; even someone as _hot_ as Brian found it hard to look studly when swathed in layers of clothing, like an eskimo. Bad enough that he’d had to dig out his Timberland hiking boots so he’d have a bit of traction on the slippery, snow-covered cement; he really hoped no one noticed he was wearing an off-brand shoe.

The adman hoofed it the eight blocks to the bookstore and was about to push through the swinging door when he realised that the parking spot in front of bookshop was now free, as was the one right behind it. Brian stood there glaring for a few minutes, during which time no one claimed the empty spaces. “Fucking Murphy and his stupid fucking law,” he groused as he entered the store. “What’s a Mick doing giving my parking luck away to a kraut, anyway?”

As always, he grimaced at the cutesy, childish name emblazoned on the doors as he entered the shop, immediately beelining toward the adult magazine section at the back, where he chose the latest issues of _Blueboy_ , _Genre_ , and _Gay Times_ . He tried to pick up the new editions of the monthly magazines for Vic as soon as they came out, the mix of gay porn, New York lifestyle, and general entertainment providing Vic with reading material - and visual entertainment. Debbie kept her brother supplied with _Out_ and _The Advocate_ , but the bookstore was the only place in town that carried the other magazines.

Returning to the front of the store, Brian stepped up to the counter, where a gangly, pimply kid was manning the cash register, and slapped the magazines down in front of him. The kid, who’d been chomping on a stick of gum stopped mid-chew, mouth agape, the piece of gum protruding over his lower lip, and simply stared at him.

The brunet stud’s upper lip curled in disgust at the unappealing sight. “Are you going to ring these up?” he growled, tapping the topmost magazine with a manicured index finger.

The youngster continued to ogle Brian.

Christ, Brian thought, as if he’d ever fuck such a pathetic specimen of manhood - at least, he assumed that was what had the lad all agog. Losing patience, the adman tossed ten dollars onto the counter - he didn’t give a fuck if he was overpaying - grabbed a bag, and stuffed the magazines inside before striding toward the door.

“Wait!” the kid shouted, finally coming to life. “You’re Brian Kinney, right?”

“Yeah. Why?” Brian asked, one hand on the door.

“Word is you’re opening your own ad agency.”

The adman cringed inwardly at the thought that the scrawny teen might want a job. He didn’t bother to respond, just pushed at the door.

“Wait!” the lad reiterated. “We just changed hands, and my new boss would like to talk to you about running a campaign for him.”

Huh. That sounded promising - and wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting, given the way the boy had been eyeing him. It couldn’t hurt to garner a bit more information. Brian sauntered back to the cash register and handed the package with the mags to the pimply kid, who rang up his purchases and handed him the change as well as a business card.

“That’s my boss.” The kid pointed at the name, Shane McFarland, in the center of the card.

Brian barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at having the obvious pointed out. “So how’d your boss hear about me?”

“Oh, right!” The boy jumped as if he’d been poked in the arse with a hatpin, before bending down and scrabbling around underneath the counter. When he stood up, he thrust a package at Brian.

The adman couldn’t help wondering if the lad was all there. Quirking an eyebrow, he waited for an explanation.

“Shit. I, uh,” the boy stuttered, “I’m not usually this much of a moron. But, uh,” he gestured at Brian, “you’re-” He stopped, evidently struck speechless again.

Yep. Acne Boy was definitely attracted to him, even if that wasn’t the primary reason he’d waylaid Brian. He smirked and arched his eyebrow a little higher.

“Duh.” The kid smacked himself in the forehead. “You don’t need me to tell you how hot you are.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what the deal is with this package - and how it relates to your boss knowing about me?”

“Uh, Shane apparently ended up chatting with a couple dudes who know you, while one of them was purchasing the book that’s in that bag. He forgot the book when he left the store. We’ve been holding it for him, but he hasn’t been back yet.”

Curious, Brian pulled out the book, revealing the title, _The Church and the Homosexual_.

“Um, that’s actually a really cool text even though it’s kinda old,” the boy continued. “It was, like, the first book produced by a Catholic priest that contended the Bible doesn’t condemn homosexuality.”

As if the real religious wingnuts - like his mum - would ever read a book like that, Brian thought sourly. Endeavouring to keep his face blank, he merely commented, “That still doesn’t clue me in as to who purchased it.”

The clerk coloured up again. “Uh, there’s a credit card receipt inside. Maybe you can check the signature?”

Flipping the cover open, Brian found a receipt with a legible signature, _Benjamin Bruckner_. Could this purchase have been made on the day that Theodore and Ben met? he wondered, grinning to himself. He’d have to rag Ted about it, regardless of whether his friend had touted him to the new owner.

“I know him,” Brian acknowledged. “If you’d like, I can see that the book reaches its purchaser.”

“Um,” the boy frowned, “I don’t know if that’d be kosher.”

The brunet really wanted to have the book in hand to give Ted this evening, so he could watch the man squirm. “What if I have the professor who bought it give you a call and confirm that he’s received the book?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess that’d be okay.” the sales clerk replied, his voice hesitant.

“Here,” Brian offered, fishing out his wallet and extracting a card. “This is one of my old business cards, with my mobile number written on the back. When I talk with your boss about advertising options, I can confirm that the book reached Professor Bruckner.”

The boy looked relieved at that reassurance. “Yeah, okay.” He smiled at Brian, joking, “It’s not like I don’t know who you are and can’t track you down if I don’t get that call.”

Moments later, both the bag with the magazines for Vic and the one with Ben’s book safely stowed inside his coat, where the snow wouldn’t dampen them, the adman hastened toward the Cork and Bottle. Even if he didn’t end up creating a full-blown campaign for McFarland, he reflected, he could at least come up with a kickass name for the bookstore - something to replace the current, juvenile one. He’d even be willing to do that for free; he was that sick of _Over the Rainbow_.

 

The brunet scowled at his Bvlgari Octo wristwatch as he rang the bell at Deb’s almost thirty-five minutes after leaving the bookstore. Instead of arriving early for dinner so he could convince Justin that both of them wanted the same thing - lots of fucking with no strings attached - he was customarily late. He was both amused and appalled to be confronted by the tacky cock-and-ball wreath, which had graced Debbie’s door every year since he first met Michael and his mum. He flicked his middle finger against one of the red ‘balls,’ brooding that the color was wrong - given the state of his balls, they should be blue, not red.

Maybe, he mused, said blue balls feeling painfully full as he waited for someone to get their arse over to the door and let him in, _Operation Twat Retrieval_ could begin immediately. He really couldn’t imagine that the blond wasn’t ripe for the plucking by now. Just as he was drifting off into an erotic daydream, in which he was emptying his balls into the most perfect arse he’d ever fucked, the door finally swung open.

“Sunshine!” Brian heartily greeted the blond, his face flaming as he wished there was some unobtrusive way for him to clamp down on the base of his cock. He was suddenly _that close_ to erupting, and coming face-to-face with the possessor of his favourite bubble butt wasn’t helping him regain control.

His libido took a hit, though, his erection dwindling when the teenager merely stared at him stonily. Be careful what you wish for, Kinney, the brunet thought. If only he’d arrived early, as planned, maybe he could’ve cajoled Justin out of his pissy mood, with the two of them adjourning to Michael’s old room for a short while. Maybe for a pre-dinner protein digestif? That idea had him grinning lasciviously at the boy, but there was no return smile.

One beat and another passed before Justin opened the door fully. “Brian,” he greeted the brunet in a frostily polite tone, stepping out of the way so Brian could enter. “Do come in.”

The brunet stud couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Surely Justin wasn’t carrying a grudge just because Brian invited him over for a fuck the last time he’d seen the teenager. “What the fuck crawled up your a-” he started, when Emmett’s voice interrupted them.

“Kiss, kiss!” the queen called out, pointing at something above their heads.

Glancing upward, Brian noticed the mistletoe that was almost brushing his auburn locks. Perfect. A steamy kiss would be just the ticket to beguile the brat out of his bad temper. He bent down, intending to treat the lad to a thorough tonguing but, to his dismay, Justin turned his cheek so that their lips didn’t touch.

“I’m not a fucking kewpie doll for you to fondle whenever you want,” the lad hissed, turning around and leaving Brian gaping after him from the doorway.

“Are you coming or going?” Debbie shouted. “Either way, shut the fucking door. You’re letting the heat out.”

He definitely wanted to be coming, Brian thought peevishly. Unfortunately, it looked like he was going to have to mend fences with Justin before that happened. Not for the first time, he regretted kicking the kid out after the burglary; before that, all it had taken was a single look from him, and Justin was ready to fuck - unlike now.

Unused to being repeatedly thwarted by his prey, the adman barely resisted a childish urge to slam the door behind himself as he entered the house and dumped his bags next to the coat stand. It turned out he couldn’t shut the door at all, however, a weight pressing against it from the other side.

“What the fuck?” he griped.

“Geez, Brian,” he heard Ted complain from the other side, “didn’t you hear me calling out to hold the door open?”

Not about to admit that he’d been too busy sulking to hear him, Brian simply backed up, allowing the door to swing free. With Brian no longer pushing against the door, Ted stumbled ungracefully over the threshold.

A hand reached out and steadied Theodore before reeling him back one step. “Mistletoe,” Ben murmured, directing Ted’s attention to the sprig of greenery.

“We shouldn’t waste-” Ted began, before Ben covered his lips with his own.

Brian felt an odd, painful tugging as he watched the scorching kiss, which neither man seemed in a hurry to end. There was no way he was jealous, so he figured it must be a hunger pang, caused by eating nothing more than an apple for lunch.

“Ooh la la!” Emmett exclaimed, fanning himself with one hand as he appeared next to Brian. “What have we here?”

The adman doubted either of the men had heard Em, since they remained liplocked. Brian shifted from one foot to the other, disturbed to realise he was becoming aroused from watching Ted - Ted of all people! - engage in a porn-worthy kiss with the professor.

“Why the fuck’s the door still open?” Debbie bellowed a second later as she stomped into the hallway. “Shit or get off the pot, Brian!”

Brian stared in disbelief when Deb’s stentorian roar failed to rouse the men from their kissing trance. How the fuck were they still breathing? He hadn’t seen them come up for air once. He might have to query Ted about his breathing technique, he mused.

“Oh,” the redhead’s voice dropped to a whisper, a sappy expression crossing her face as she bulldozed her way in between Emmett and Brian, “Teddy’s got himself a beau - and such a handsome one.”

The good thing about having the woman he called ‘Ma’ wedged up against him was that it instantly killed Brian’s burgeoning hard-on. The bad thing, however, was the pornus interruptus, even if it was discomfiting to have discovered that _Ted_ could be _hot_.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” Em seconded Debbie’s assessment, a dreamy look in his eyes, his hands fluttering about until he clasped them in front of his chest.

Jesus Christ. What a bunch of sentimental claptrap, Brian thought, rolling his eyes. He let out a piercing whistle, inquiring sardonically, “Are you gonna fuck in the doorway?”

The sides of Ted’s and Ben’s faces pressed together as they turned toward their audience, their lips parting, a dazed look in their eyes.

“Dammit, Brian,” Deb elbowed him in the ribs, “why’d you hafta do that? That was the first hot flash I’ve actually enjoyed.”

“Shit. What’d I miss?” Vic asked, joining the growing throng in the entryway.

Instead of becoming a stammering, floundering mess, Ted surprised Brian. A proud smile on his face, he stayed plastered against the professor. “Deb, Vic, I’d like to introduce my boyfriend, Ben Bruckner.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Vic greeted the newcomer to the household. Quirking an eyebrow and glancing at the mistletoe, he added, “Although I’m disappointed to have missed the man-on-man action.”

Downplaying how erotic the ‘man-on-man action’ had been, Brian drawled, “It was just a kiss.”

“No, no, no.” Emmett immediately jumped in. “That was far more than a kiss. It was-”

“A bloody hot tongue-fucking,” Deb finished his sentence. “Christ, Teddy, I thought Ben was about to perform a tonsillectomy on you.”

“That would be one for the _Guinness Book of World Records_ ,” Ben chuckled, shaking hands first with Vic and then Debbie. “No one has yet succeeded in sucking out another person’s tonsils.”

“You two seem awfully _cosy_ ,” the redhead teased as she chivvied everyone inside. “How long have you been dating?”

“It’s been a couple of months,” Ted disclosed as he, Ben, and Brian shed their outerwear.

“Closer to three,” Ben specified.

“That would be almost as long as Baby and the Big Bad,” Emmett niggled Brian, giving him a sidelong glance as they entered the dining area, “if they were still together that is.”

“Who?” Ben asked, obviously confused.

“No one,” Brian grunted dismissively, glaring at the mischievous queen. “And they were never dating,” he added for a good measure as they approached the table. Unfortunately, his words fell into a conversational lull, the blond staring directly at him. He worried that Justin would throw a hissy fit, which would make it even more difficult to get into his pants, but the blond simply turned away, laughing at something the girls were discussing. He held Gus securely in his arms as the boy batted at one of the bells on Harley’s cage, while the budgie rang the one beneath his mirror lantern.

“Ha-ee,” the tyke gurgled.

Brian smiled and moved toward Justin and his son, planning to put his arms around both boys. He hoped the blond wouldn’t object to that, that he’d realise Brian wasn’t being deliberately cruel; after all, Justin knew he didn’t do romance in any form, especially not that heterosexual nonsense known as _dating_.

“ _Hellooo, Briaaan_ .” Harley chirped. “ _Jushun. Come, Baby.”_

The brunet stud grinned. That cheeky budgie had its priorities in the right order - and it seemed to be on his side.

“That’s disgusting!” Michael protested, tromping into the room with David right behind him.

“What is?” Emmett inserted. “Coming?”

“Huh? Yes. No. I mean, yes!” Michael shouted, almost stamping a foot against the carpet in vexation.

“You don’t like to come?” Em questioned innocently.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I like to come!” the short brunet retorted. “But-”

“Honey,” Deb interrupted, averting a tirade that Brian was certain would have been directed at Justin. “Let me introduce you and David to Ted’s boyfriend.”

“We’ve met,” Michael stated unenthusiastically.

Debbie narrowed her eyes as David stepped forward to shake Ben’s hand. “Wait a minute. When did you meet Ben? In fact,” she turned in a circle, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at Brian and Emmett, “now that I think about it, Ted introduced Ben to me and Vic, but not to you two.”

Shit, Brian thought. Deb hated it when she was the last one to hear a new titbit.

“It was at the diner. At least, that’s where I met the _professor_.” Michael sneered, elongating ‘professor’ so that it sounded like some kind of demeaning occupation.

“A professor, a doctor, and a cop in the family,” Vic joked, trying to lessen the tension. “Now all we need is-”

“There’s no cop in the family!” Michael shrieked, overriding his uncle’s voice.

“You should be fucking happy for me, Michael.” Debbie scowled at her son, although Michael paid her no mind.

“Anyway,” the short brunet ranted, “that’s not important. What _I_ want to know is why the professor was being so chummy with Brian at the diner. They obviously met before.”

Crap. Michael’s radar for ferreting out information about Brian was far too accurate at times. Noting the angry glint in his childhood friend’s eyes, Brian realised Mikey wasn’t going to let the subject drop. As he was trying to figure out how to defuse the situation, Ben spoke up.

“That’s really none of your business, Michael,” the professor observed mildly, Ted nodding in agreement.

Brian felt a headache brewing. Common sense was _not_ going to work with Mikey, not when Brian was involved. Sure enough, that got Michael’s hackles up.

“Brian’s _my_ best friend,” Michael pontificated, crossing his arms over his chest, his lower lip jutting out.

“That doesn’t make it your business,” Ben rephrased his observation.

“Yes, it does,” Michael insisted. “Brian and I look out for each other. Always have. Always will.”

Fuck. Michael was like a dog with a bone, meaning this could go on for hours. It would be great if the news about how he and Ben had originally met could be kept private; there was no way that would happen now, however, what with everyone listening avidly. Since every single person who was watching this encounter would be pestering them for the details in any case, Brian looked over at Ben and then at Ted, silently asking for permission. If either of them looked the least bit uneasy, he wouldn’t say a word.

Ben glanced at Ted, raising his eyebrows. Ted clasped one of his boyfriend’s hands in his and nodded at Brian, appearing unruffled.

Brian shrugged at his childhood friend. “We met at a White Party, years ago,” he disclosed.

“You fucked?” Michael screeched.

“That’s what you do at a White Party, Sweetie.” Emmett murmured, his head swiveling from Brian to Ben and back again. “Fuck, that must’ve been hot, hot, hot.”

“Wish I’d been there,” Vic joked. “I’d have paid for a ringside seat.”

“How can you be okay with that?” Michael yelled at Ted.

Ted cast a blasé look at Michael. “What’s the big deal? They tricked for a night, no strings attached. Fags do that all the time, including you, I hope.”

“I’d never cheat on David like that,” Michael asserted, wrapping an arm around the doc.

Right, Brian thought cynically, unless the right opportunity arose. He didn’t dare look at Justin since he knew how strongly the lad disapproved of Michael’s behaviour. What he’d told Justin still held true - there was no point in talking to Michael because his childhood friend would have reinvented what had happened to suit himself and, on top of that, would be sent into a lengthy fit of the sulks by a confrontation, making everyone around him miserable. He and Justin would just have to hope that the incident with Ben had been an aberration that would never recur.

“What cheating?” Ted asked in bemusement.

“Duh. Your professor slept with someone else.” Michael scolded, speaking slowly, as if to a dullard. “That’s cheating, even if it’s with a stud like Brian.”

Ted shook his head in exasperation. “Hardly, Michael. It happened years before I met Ben.”

“It counts,” Michael argued. “Ben’ll never really want you since he’s been fucked by Brian.”

“Honeybun,” David intervened, “it’s wonderful that you’re such a loyal friend, but Ted’s right. If it happened before he met Ben, it should have no effect on their relationship.”

“For fuck’s sake, Michael,” Debbie lectured her son, “Ben’s not interested in Brian. Can’t you see the way he’s looking at Ted?”

“It’s different when it comes to Brian,” Michael persisted stubbornly.

“I know I’m irresistible,” Brian teased his petulant friend, “but the glamour wears off for most guys after one night. Not just for me, but for them too, Mikey.”

“It didn’t for _him_.” Michael jerked a thumb in Justin’s direction.

“He’s… different.” Brian allowed, casting a surreptitious look at the blond. Dammit, he mused, the kid didn’t seem impressed by the implied compliment. In fact, he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Brian.

“Shit!” Justin handed Gus to Lindsay and rushed toward the kitchen. “It smells like something’s burning, Deb!”

“My chicken francese!” Deb wailed, immediately on Justin’s heels.

 

A little later, everyone was seated around the dining room table, with Debbie apologising for the slim pickings. “I can’t believe I burned the chicken,” she mourned the loss of the main course. “I’ve cooked that dish hundreds of times. I should’ve been watching it, though, not hankering after the latest gossip.”

“Hon,” Emmett consoled her, “of course you wanted in on the latest goss. Besides, what chef doesn’t occasionally have a dish go tits up?”

“Exactly,” Vic concurred. “I’ve regaled you with with enough tales of the disasters at that fancy restaurant I worked for in New York, Sis.”

“The peas and eggs taste really good,” Justin chimed in, spooning up another mouthful.

“It’s a poor man’s dish,” Michael disparaged the replacement main course. “You should’ve let David order pizza for all of us, Ma. A man needs meat to eat.”

Justin wanted to kick the whining man in the arse. How dare he criticise his mother like that? the blond fumed to himself. That phrase about the meat, however, struck the teenager’s fancy, the words ‘meat to eat’ spinning around in his brain.

“Michael Charles Novotny,” Debbie chided her son. “It was very kind of David to make that offer, but there’s still plenty of good food to eat, even without the chicken francese.”

“There should be something besides veggies.” Michael pouted.

“Gee, I didn’t know eggs were considered vegetables,” Ted commented wryly. “I guess you learn something new every day.”

“And then there’s the cheesy garlic bread,” Melanie quipped, “transformed into ‘veg bread’ as soon as one pea touches it.”

“Hahaha,” Michael fake-laughed. “I’d just rather eat meat.”

“I’m sure Dr Dave lets you eat his meat,” Vic remarked, smiling slyly.

That was it! Justin thought triumphantly while giggling at Vic’s bon mot. Change the pronoun and he had the perfect slogan for a steakhouse - _Eat the meat_. Even if he and his ex never became lovers again, the lad still wanted Brian’s new agency to succeed and would do whatever he could to contribute to that success. Reaching around to the sideboard, Justin grabbed his sketchbook and pencil, tore out a sheet, made a rough drawing of a steakhouse with the slogan jotted down beneath it, folded the piece of paper, and pushed it under the edge of Brian’s  plate.

Justin hadn’t really been in the mood to chat with anyone since they started eating. He would have sat at the other end of the table so he could have fun helping feed Gus; however, he’d wanted Debbie to relax rather than jumping up to fill any last-minute requests. That had led him to claim the chair next to his surrogate mother at the head of table, which meant he could be the one to get up if anything was needed from the kitchen.

The blond lad wasn’t sure why Brian had insisted on sitting next to him - they hadn’t exchanged one word since Justin greeted the brunet at the door, the lad still too ticked off about the doppelgänger hustler to attempt conversation. It had been rather comical when Brian and Em had nearly collided as they both went for the chair next to the teen, the flamboyant queen backing off with a smirk and subsiding into the seat on the other side of Brian when the slightly shorter man snarled at him.

“What’s that?” Michael sneered at Justin from across the table as he placed the piece of paper under Brian’s plate. “A love note? Haven’t you figured out yet that Brian doesn’t do love?”

“It’s business,” Justin stated curtly, wishing the rapport they’d established that afternoon had lasted longer. Michael’s mood had been deteriorating since he winkled out the truth about Brian and the professor meeting at a White Party. Then, he’d tried to sit in the chair Justin currently occupied - Emmett having already taken the seat to Brian’s left - loudly proclaiming that he needed to be next to ‘his best friend’. Debbie, however, had insisted that Michael move to the other side of the table, so he and David could sit together. Justin had mostly been keeping his eyes on his plate as he ate, rather than look at Michael’s scowling visage.

“ _Riiight_ ,” Michael heehawed. “I bet it’s a note begging Brian to fu-”

“As it happens, it _is_ business,” Brian drawled after opening the note. “Not that I’d mind if it were personal,” he added, leering at the blond.

Justin stared back at his former lover, amazed that Brian would admit to that much in front of the ‘family’. Sure, it only amounted to Brian acknowledging that he wanted to fuck him, but considering it wasn’t that long since Brian had thrown him out of the loft… The blond’s head was spinning as he contemplated going home with Brian tonight - it was so very tempting. The interlude with Eric hadn’t been nearly enough to sate his appetite after the month-long sexual drought, and sex with Brian was always special. But, he sternly reminded himself, sitting up ramrod straight, his expression icing over, he was nothing more than an interchangeable fuck toy for the brunet.

He was surprised when something that resembled sadness flickered in Brian’s hazel eyes. He couldn’t figure out why that would be, though; Brian could just avail himself of the ‘dial a hustler’ service again.

“Hey,” Michael interposed excitedly, pulling Brian’s attention away from Justin, “did you see the car in the driveway?”

“Couldn’t miss it,” Brian deadpanned. “Which corner does it oversee?”

Michael beamed at his friend, clearly thinking he’d been complimented, although Dr Dave looked less happy about Brian’s remark.

“I thought of parking in the driveway since _someone_ nicked my parking karma” - Brian paused to glare at Ted - “but Fillmore Slim beat me to it. I had to park two-and-a-half blocks away.”

Ted chuckled. “You can’t blame it on me this time. I arrived after you, remember?”

Brian narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Where’d you park?”

“Whoever was parked in front of Deb’s house pulled out as I was driving down the street,” Ted responded with a nonchalant shrug. “There was just enough room for my car.”

Ben commented admiringly, “You have mad parking skills, Theodore; I never would have tried to fit a vehicle the size of your Mercedes into that spot.”

“What’s the deal with the _GLAX AD_ license plate, anywho?” Emmett inquired, flapping a hand at Michael.

“Yeah,” Ted chimed in. “I thought I had a bowel movement coming on.”

“You have bladder _and_ bowel problems?” Michael screeched. “You really need to see a doctor, Ted. There must be something seriously wrong.”

“Uh, Honey,” Debbie interceded, “It’s your license plate that’s having an effect on Ted.”

Dr Dave frowned, but then a look of enlightenment stole over his face. “Your mum’s right, Dumpling. _GLAX AD_ sounds like a laxative.”

“ _Galaxy Lad_ is not a fucking laxative!” Michael shouted.

Everyone at the table burst out laughing. Justin was surprised when Michael’s lips twitched as he caught on to the joke he’d made - maybe the dweeb’s sense of humour wasn’t entirely defunct.

“You should beseech Parkodité, the goddess of parking, to help you.” Melanie quipped.

“No,” Debbie disagreed “You need some high-powered assistance. Try this prayer: ‘Mother Cabrini, Mother Cabrini, please find a space for my parking machiney.’”

Brian shot an affronted looked at the redhead, snorting, “As if I have any trouble docking my ‘parking machine.’

“Deb’s right,” Vic averred. “That prayer works. I used it all the time in New York. If anyone can help you, it’s Mother Cabrini, a genuine Italian-American, who’s also the patron saint of immigrants.”

“I’d settle for having my parking karma returned,” Brian cavilled. “Theodore can have the prayer.”

“ _Come, Briaaan,_ ” Harley chirped.

“See, even the budgie agrees that you should give it back.” The adman folded his arms across his chest and shot a look of vindication at his friend and employee.

Feigning regret, Ted shook his head and adopted a pious expression. “I can’t return something Mother Cabrini wants me to have, Bri.”

Justin giggled at the way Ted had outfoxed Brian, earning a dirty look from his ex.

“Maybe you should just admit defeat,” Lindsay teased, “and have a funeral Mass for your dead parking karma. Then you could accept that it’s gone-”

“And get used to walking three to four extra blocks every-fucking-where I go? No way.” Brian grumped.

“Speaking of Mass,” Debbie mentioned, “remember how we used to attend Midnight Mass with Nonno and Nonna every year, Vic?”

“The pomp and circumstance of High Mass in Latin, the finest priestly vestments, the full choir, the hand-carved nativity scene...” Vic waxed nostalgic.

“Nonna was fit to burst with pride the Christmas you were selected to be the head altar boy,” Deb reminisced. “You were only fourteen years old, and there you were, leading the procession, swinging the censer.”

“I was only chosen to replace the thurifer who normally carried the censer because there was no acolyte available, and I was the tallest of the altar boys,” Vic recalled, chuckling. “I could barely keep the blasted thing off the floor, and I was scared shitless I was going to set my robes on fire.”

“You were an altar boy?” Justin questioned, startled.

“Yep,” Vic confirmed. “It’s still common for boys who grow up in practising Catholic households. Both Michael and Brian were altar boys too.”

The teenager had even more trouble picturing Brian as an altar boy.

“Fucking hated it,” Brian growled. “Father Cedric of the foul breath and roaming hands was always trying to corner me. He even had my mum half convinced that I had the makings of a priest.”

“You got even with him, though,” Michael giggled, “using what you learned in chemistry.”

“Best use ever for synthetic come.” Brian grinned. “Father Cedric was glued to that toilet seat for hours before the janitor finally heard him crying for help from the loo in the rectory.”

“That was you?” an astounded Debbie yelled. “How come you never told me?”

“Vic knew,” Brian revealed, “and he made sure Father Cedric kept his hands off me after that.”

“Next thing to a paederast,” Vic condemned the man. “He should have been defrocked. At least I put the ‘fear of God’ into him enough that he requested a posting at a different parish. We were well rid of him.”

“Did he ever bother you, Honey?” Deb inquired, glancing at Michael in concern.

“Nah. He only wanted the prettiest altar boy.” Michael replied.

“I was _handsome_ , not ‘pretty,’ Brian huffed.

Justin started laughing. It figured that that distinction was what mattered most to Brian. He had to agree with Michael, however - geeky, teenage Brian was more pretty than handsome.

“Shut up,” Brian muttered, bumping their shoulders together, although Justin noticed that he didn’t look all that offended.

“You know, Sis, we should go to Midnight Mass this Christmas,” Vic suggested.

“I’d like that,” Debbie immediately agreed. “We can sing all those lovely old hymns, celebrate the birth of the Baby Jesus, and light candles in memory of Nonna and Nonno.”

Looking at the way Debbie’s face had lit up, Justin realised she was a fairly devout Catholic in some ways, although she obviously despised the Church’s stance regarding queers. “Can non-Catholics attend?” he inquired, thinking it might be interesting to observe the panoply of a Midnight Mass. His surrogate mother’s excitement about the hymns also sparked an idea about another Christmas present - a calligraphic rendering of a sacred hymn with a border comprised of portraits of the ‘family,’ including Deb and Vic’s grandparents and parents. He’d ask Frau Rose to help him research popular Catholic hymns so he could choose the one he thought Debbie would like best.

Beaming at him, the redhead reached out and squeezed one of Justin’s cheeks, replying, “Everyone’s welcome at Midnight Mass, Sunshine! Heck, lots of Catholics only attend Mass on Christmas Eve.”

“Too bad you’re too old to serve as an altar boy.” Vic winked at Justin. “Otherwise, we’d convert you and put you through the same torture Michael, Brian, and I endured.”

“Fuck, no!” Justin blurted. He didn’t really have a clue what duties an altar boy had, other than possibly carrying a censer, but it didn’t sound like something he’d enjoy. Unless, perhaps, he had a companion in crime like Brian. He couldn’t help feeling a little envious of the experiences Brian and Michael had shared as teenagers.

“I’ll second that,” Ben let out a deep laugh, “if not quite so vehemently. My parents were nominally Catholic, but they weren’t particularly observant. We attended Mass once or twice a year, at Christmas and sometimes for the Easter Vigil, but mum and dad saw no need for me or any of my siblings to take catechism or go through confirmation.”

“Huh.” Ted looked at his boyfriend in surprise. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’re Catholic.”

“I can’t say I am a Catholic, even if I’ve been baptised.” Ben shrugged. “Really, I’m not much for organised religions. I’d rather meditate, work out in the gym, or go for a run, than sit in a church on Sunday morning.”

“I’d rather worship in another way entirely,” Emmett remarked, waggling his eyebrows at the professor.

“Hmm. Since someone was being a slugabed this morning, I thought I’d save that for my post-run cool-down,” Ben joked.

“A hot, sweaty Ben,” Ted joined in the raillery, grinning at his beau, “does not have a _cooling_ effect on me, for some unknown reason.”

“There’d be something wrong with you if it did, Teddy,” Em contended, fanning himself with his napkin.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep _you_ interested,” Ben emphasised, leaning over to bestow a steamy kiss on Ted.

Once their lip-lock ended, Ben resumed, “This morning as I was cutting across campus, I saw another early riser emerging from the dorms. I thought at first that one of the students was also a jogger and was thinking of asking if he wanted to join me for my morning constitutional, but then I realised the kid was staggering toward the bus stop.”

Shit. Was it possible the professor had seen him leaving Eric’s dormitory? Justin wondered.

“Drunk or fucked out?” Melanie speculated.

“Or both,” Lindsay murmured, her cheeks a rosy pink.

“The good old days,” Mel laughed.

Justin felt his stomach lurch as he prayed that they wouldn’t talk about lezzie sex.

“No talking about what munchers do at night,” Brian demanded, shuddering.

“I’d guess the student was just tuckered out, although I was too far away to make an accurate assessment.” Ben returned to the original topic.

“What time did you see the kid?” Debbie queried, an interested glint in her eyes.

“Sunrise,” Ben stated firmly. “I might not have noticed the boy if a ray of sunshine hadn’t pierced the clouds right then, haloing his blond hair.”

So much for keeping his one-night stand private, or at least just between him, Vic, Deb, and Carl, the teenager reflected. He hadn’t thought to request that they keep it quiet, not that it would have done any good, but he also hadn’t calculated that _Ben_ would raise the subject over dinner.

“Who gives a shit about some drunk college kid?” Michael asked.

“Not a college kid, and not drunk,” Vic chuckled.

“How do you know that?” Brian questioned sharply.

“Because it was me,” Justin revealed, trying to take command of the situation. Better that than simply let everyone rag on him mercilessly.

The professor winced and mouthed a ‘Sorry’ at him, making it clear that he hadn’t recognised the blond, or he wouldn’t have put him on the spot like that.

Brian’s head swiveled toward the teen. “Were you visiting _Bob_?” he probed, a nasty edge to his voice.

“Not possible,” Debbie chortled, clearly delighting in Justin’s predicament. “ _Bob_ was _here_.”

“Double-timing your boyfriend, Boy Wonder?” Michael sneered. “Sounds like something a _slut_ would do.”

Although Michael’s slur made the teenager furious, he was also bewildered by it; he’d have thought Michael would encourage him to fuck other men, since that would keep him away from Brian. Suddenly, however, the sheer ridiculousness of the situation struck him, and he began laughing helplessly. He could feel Brian’s eyes boring into him, but he refused to let it get to him. Why bother to defend his right to trick or his ‘relationship’ with a dildo, for fuck’s sake?

“There’s nothing wrong with tricking,” Vic censured his nephew. “Justin,” he chuckled, “never promised fidelity to _Bob_ \- or to anyone else, for that matter.”

“Darned tootin’!” Debbie concurred. “Sunshine should have fun while he’s young.”

A muscle spasmed beneath Brian’s left eye as he glared at the blond. How dare the brat blow him off for mere _boys_ , who couldn’t possibly compete with his own attractiveness and prowess? “Christ, Sunshine,” he griped, “can’t you keep it in your pants?”

Everyone at the table goggled at the brunet stud, Justin looking particularly nonplussed. It was so quiet that you could have heard a pin drop. Brian could hardly believe he’d uttered such a hypocritical, idiotic statement and was at a loss for how to extricate himself from the mess.

Fortunately, Em broke the silence by flirting outrageously, “Ooh, were you being all toppy, Baby? You can always practise on me, you know.”

Another pang of something unidentifiable assaulted Brian. Maybe it was heartburn?

Michael rolled his eyes and scoffed through a mouthful of food, “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard. Two complete bottoms trying to get it on? Absolutely nothing would happen.”

Emmett didn’t bother to refute his friend’s allegations or remind him that there was more than one way to ‘get it on’. Instead, he gave an eyeroll of his own, scrunched up his nose, and mocked, “Ew, Michael, Sweetie, no one wants to see the half-chewed peas on your tongue.”

Brian mused that for all Michael’s carping about the peas and eggs, he couldn’t seem to get enough of the _not-meat_ . His sour mood lifted a little as he patted the pocket of his jeans, feeling the piece of paper with the slogan Justin had suggested crinkling beneath his fingers. _Eat the meat_. Christ, he couldn’t wait for the blond to do just that.

Shoveling in another forkful, Michael protested through the half-masticated food, “I’m hungry. Ma was such a slave driver with the decorations. She barely let us stop for a cuppa.”

“Michael!” Debbie reached over and slapped her son upside the head. “That’s not true. What is true” - she laughed fondly and patted her ample belly - “is that you inherited my appetite.”

“And your wide jaw,” Michael proudly claimed, flecks of food spewing onto the table.

“Sis does have a big mouth,” Vic cheekily interjected, making everyone chuckle. “But a jaw and a mouth-”

“It’s a really good thing to have,” Michael interrupted. “It’s because of my wide jaw that I give such fantastic blowjobs.”

“What?” Dr Dave asked, his forehead creasing in confusion. “I think what Vic was trying to say is that just because your jaw is wide, it doesn’t mean-”

“My fellatio,” Michael cut his boyfriend off. “You said my skills are beyond compare.”

Brian’s bad mood dissipated some more. Michael’s ignorance, sometimes endearing and sometimes annoying, almost always provided comic relief.

“Well, that’s true,” David finally replied, grinning smugly, “but-”

“The size of your jaw makes for good blowjobs?” Melanie wisecracked. “God forbid I should end up mouth to dick, but I don’t see how having a large jaw would help.”

“The width of your jaw doesn’t directly correlate to the absolute volume of your mouth,” Ben pedantically inserted. “Even if you have an unusually wide jaw, your mouth may be smaller than the norm.”

Michael bristled, “Fat lot you know, _professor_.”

Fuck, Brian thought. Here we go again. If someone didn’t intervene soon, this wasn’t going to end well. Michael clearly had bruised feelings after being brushed off by Ben earlier in the week, and - as Brian had suspected would happen - he didn’t even seem to realise that he should never have come on to Ted’s boyfriend or have tried to ‘cheat’ on David like that.

Before the situation could escalate further, Dr Dave mitigated it. His cheeks red with embarrassment, he confessed, “It’s probably your lack of gag reflex, Dumpling, and not the width of your jaw that makes the difference.”

That seemed to appease Michael. “Yeah,” he reflected, “I’ve heard that most men have trouble with that gag reflex thing. I’ve never had any trouble, though.”

As the tension eased, Michael suddenly boasted, “That makes me the best cocksucker in Pittsburgh, right?”

“Sure, Michael, you’re a maestro,” Ted commented drily, causing Em to hiccup with laughter, the imp beside Brian to giggle, and most everyone else to fall about.

Theodore and Brian exchanged a wryly amused look. Michael’s cocksucking skills might be impressive, but the brunet stud had no desire to observe those skills - he suspected it would be _deflating_.

 

Shortly after the discussion about jaws and cocks ended, Justin stood up to clear away the plates that had largely been scraped clean. “I’ve got it,” the lad stated when Debs began to rise to help out. “I’ll just rinse these and put them in the dishwasher, and then the dessert should be ready. Who’d like some?” he inquired of the table at large.

“I can always make room for dessert,” Emmett promptly answered, giving Justin a gap-toothed smile, whilst rubbing his slightly distended belly with one hand.

“Me. I’m still hungry,” Michael complained. “Peas and eggs aren’t very filling. Give me a big helping of whatever it is.”

Inconsiderate twit, the blond teen thought when he noticed Debbie’s crestfallen look. Justin was tempted to point out that there wasn’t any ‘meat’ in the dessert, but that would just start Michael carping again about the meatless meal, even though there was no way the man could still be hungry after all the food he’d shoveled into his maw.

“Bamama!” Gus carolled, banging his pudgy hands down on the tray of his highchair, diverting Justin’s attention from Michael.

Justin grinned at the nipper. “No banana, but I promise you’ll like it, Gussy.”

“Bah, Jushun!” the tyke signalled his agreement.

“You shouldn’t encourage him to develop a sweet tooth,” Brian stated, glancing disapprovingly at the girls. “Too many carbs aren’t health-”

“He has yet to develop a tooth of any kind,” Melanie noted, using her napkin to wipe away a spot of drool from the cherub’s mouth.

“And you’re not exactly one to talk about carbs,” Lindsay teased her friend, “considering the many cups of caffeinated sugar you down every day.”

“Hmpf,” Brian grunted, apparently realising he wasn’t going to win the argument. “No dessert for me. I don’t want to get fat.”

The teenager laughed to himself as he ferried the empty dishes into the kitchen. He’d seen the way Brian sucked in his gut as if hiding flab, while glancing at Dr Dave. What that was about, beyond being hyperconscious about a nonexistent ounce of ‘fat,’ Justin wasn’t certain. Sure, the doc was in good shape, but Brian was nuts if he thought the older man was serious competition for ‘top stud’ status.

“Ooh, is that a cranberry pie?” Emmett asked as Justin deposited a pie and a tub of vanilla ice cream on the table. “It looks yummy.”

“We’re trying out all things cranberry during the run-up to Christmas,” Vic confirmed, “starting with a basic pie. Sunshine’s getting to be a dab hand with the crust.”

Justin’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Erm, I wouldn’t want to make a pie without Deb or Vic’s supervision.”

“You’ll be ready before Christmas,” Vic stated firmly, “when you’ll be solely responsible for at least one of the pies. Now, why don’t you dish up that pie you helped make?”

The boy gulped, suddenly feeling a little sickly as he cut up the cranberry pie, added a dollop of ice cream to each serving, and passed the plates around the table. What if his Christmas effort was inedible?

Emmett winked at him. “Just remember to ply all of us with plenty of alcohol, Baby, and it won’t matter if the pie has been burnt to a crisp.”

The teenager grinned at that sage advice, returning the carton of ice cream to the freezer before reseating himself at the table. His grin broadened as he glanced toward the other end of the table, seemingly listening to a quiet conversation between Ted, Ben, and Vic, even though he couldn’t hear a word. In actuality, he was surreptitiously watching as Brian scooped up a bite of ice cream drenched pie from Justin’s plate and raised it to his mouth. It really was weird, the lad mused, the way his former lover would eat off his plate, apparently without ever realising what he was doing.

As he unobtrusively nudged the plate a little closer to his ex, he noticed that Michael and David were trading off with spoon-feeding bites to each other and exchanging sloppy kisses as they chased after dribbles of cranberry and ice cream that ran down their chins. Justin had been vacillating all day about saying something to Michael in regard to the way he’d hit on Ben at the diner. Now, seeing that he and David seemed happy together, he decided to let it go. Who knew? Maybe Michael’s jealousy of both Ted and Ben - Ted for having hooked the professor, and the professor for having been fucked by Brian - would take some of the heat off of Justin, since it would give Michael someone else to focus his enmity on.

Not long thereafter, Lindsay stood up and moved around to release Gus from his high chair, opining, “If the pie you make for Christmas is anywhere near as good as this one, there won’t be a crumb left, Sunshine.”

Melanie slurped down one more forkful before joining her partner. “Sorry to eat and run,” she apologised, “but I have to be in court early tomorrow.”

“Why don’t we send the rest of the pie home with you,” Debbie suggested.

“Fuck, no.” Melanie groaned. “I’m already going to have trouble squeezing into my suit in the morning.”

“I’ll see you out,” Justin offered, figuring this was a good opportunity to excuse himself from the table.

While the girls shrugged into their coats, he bundled Gus into what seemed to be a snowsuit onesie, with legs, attached mittens, and a hood. “You look like a miniature snowman,” he informed the nipper, tweaking his button nose.

“Give him here,” a deep voice commanded from behind Justin, making him jump. “I’ll settle him into his car seat for you,” Brian said.

Moments later, the teenager closed the door behind Brian and the girls, making sure that the latch didn’t accidentally flip over - it was kind of hinky - and lock the older man out. Then he jogged upstairs, bypassing the dining room. He’d already told Debbie and Vic that he wanted to study some more tonight, so they wouldn’t be expecting him to rejoin them. All he really wanted to do, though, was crash and maybe catch up on some of his lost sleep.

Justin shut the bedroom door behind himself, peeling off his clothes and dropping them willy-nilly onto the floor, and slid into the bed. After being so sleep deprived, he expected to drop off immediately, but instead he tossed and turned, suddenly wide awake. He toyed with the idea of actually studying, but he didn’t feel like getting out of the warm bed and cracking one of his books.

Well, he reflected with an amused smile, there was always his loyal boyfriend. He slid open the nightstand drawer, assuming his fingers would immediately close around the thick object, but his hand came up empty, even after he groped around in the far corners of the drawer. Puzzled, but too lethargic to turn on the light and see if it had fallen to the floor and rolled underneath the bed, the teenager flopped down on his back, his eyelids drifting shut and his lips curving upward as he imagined ordering Brian to “Eat the meat.”

 

Where the fuck had the brat got off to? Brian wondered after re-entering Deb’s house, brushing ineffectually at the damp patches the snow had left on his Armani pullover. His hope that the kid had picked up on his signal that he wanted to talk and would be waiting for him was dashed - either he’d been too subtle, or Justin wasn’t in the mood to talk to him. The brunet stud was more than a bit put out since he was actually _willing to talk_ , long enough anyroad to find out what had the blond so pissed off, before towing him to back to the loft for a fuckathon. To heck with having _Operation Twat Retrieval_ drag on for aeons; Brian was horny now and wanted some satisfaction.

His eyes lighting on the bags he’d left by the coat rack, the adman realised he’d not only forgotten to give Vic the magazines and Ben his book, he hadn’t given given the wine to Debbie either. “Fucking twat,” he grumbled, “it’s all your fault.”

Bags in hand, Brian stormed past the dining area into the kitchen - no sign of Justin, dammit - and set the wine on the counter. Deb and Vic could drink it during the week or save it for next Sunday’s meal. He stomped back to the table - no blond teen there either, must be on the can - where he handed Vic the sack with the mags. Deciding he’d rib Ted later on about how he and the professor had bonded over such a dull tome, sometime when Michael wasn’t around to get offended by Ted and Ben’s ‘romance,’ he then plunked the bag with the book down in front of Ben, grunting, “This belongs to you.”

“Huh?” Ben replied less than eloquently, frowning at the package from _Over the Rainbow_.

“Grazie, ragazzo.” Vic beamed at Brian as he pulled the glossy magazines out of the bag and began riffling through them.

“Want to trade?” Ben joked as he removed his book.

“I’ll pass,” Vic objected, his eyes flicking over the title, _The Church and the Homosexual_. “Debbie and I bought a copy of that for our mum back when it first came out; it was no help whatsoever in convincing her that homosexuality isn’t a sin, especially since the Vatican revoked its permission for the book to be printed under its imprimatur less than a year later.”

“It was pretty much a joke in the gay community,” Deb chimed in, “even if Father Whatsit meant to help queers be accepted by their _fellow Christians_.”

“Hmm,” the professor mused, “I’m hoping it will spark discussion in my Gay Studies class - talk about what has improved for queers as well as changes that still need to be made.”

Brian snorted. “Like equal pay; affordable medical treatment for those with HIV; the right to retain our jobs if our ‘superiors’ find out we’re homos; the right to hold hands as we walk down the street - should we want to engage in such ridiculous behaviour - without being spit on?” he asked acerbically.

“All of those and more,” Ben responded equably. “Most college kids today are accepting of homosexuality, and that’s the attitude they’ll pass on to their kids.”

The debate raged for nearly an hour, the professor maintaining that things were improving, even with the jackass currently in the White House. Ted tried to back his boyfriend up, although he didn’t look all that persuaded by Ben’s arguments. With Michael and Dr Dave too busy making out at their end of the table to be aware of the debate, much less participate, Debbie moved to the foot of the table and vociferously voiced the opinion that she, Vic, Emmett, and Brian shared.

“Uh-huh,” Em scoffed in regard to straights becoming more accepting of gays. “You need to talk my Baby. He can give you the real scoop.”

Brian emitted a growling noise before he could stop himself - Justin _did not_ belong to Emmett.

“Your _Baby_?” a bewildered Ben questioned. “Who’s that?”

“Oh,” Emmett flapped a hand at the professor whilst smirking at Brian, “that’s my pet name for Justin. He can tell you - and your students - exactly how little improvement there has been for bullied high schoolers, whether you live in the Bible Belt or here in the Pitts.”

“That’s a mint idea,” Ben enthused. “An articulate, passionate teenager would make the ideal guest lecturer.” He paused and looked around, “Um, where is Justin? I’d like to find out if he’d be interested in visiting my class.”

“He wanted a little study time,” Debbie divulged. “He’s so hardworking, doesn’t take enough time for a bit of fun.”

Brian harrumphed. That might be true, except when it came to setting up a rendezvous with a fuck buddy. He’d have to re-enforce that someone much better than a scrawny, acned kid awaited Justin only a few blocks away, a stud who was always ‘up’ for that kind of activity.

“Sis and I are so proud of Sunshine,” Vic declared, shooting a pointed look at Brian. “He’s the most _responsible_ teen I’ve ever met.”

“I take it _Sunshine_ is another moniker for Justin?” the professor presumed. “I can totally see that, given his bright hair and sunny smile.”

“That’s what I dubbed the kid the first time I met him,” Deb revealed, “before I learned his name.”

“I’ll go see if the brat wants a break from his studies,” Brian stated nonchalantly. Of course, it might be a while before they made it downstairs, if the lad’s mood had improved. Before anyone could agree or disagree, he jumped up and climbed the stairs, taking them three at a time. Surprised to find that the door to Mikey’s old room was closed, he rapped on the wood lightly before opening the door, only to be greeted by a dark room and soft, snuffling snores.

Well, shit. He couldn’t bring himself to awaken the teen, who must be completely tuckered out to have fallen asleep before nine o’clock. With no option other than to postpone _Operation Twat Retrieval_ for another day, he stepped into the room, bent down over Justin’s supine form, kissed him on the brow, and whispered, “Sleep tight, Sunshine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At Brynn's insistence (she's scarred), we present you with a trigger warning for this chapter: there's some talk of a heterosexual relationship between parental figures.

Justin grumbled, “Fuck, no,” when the alarm blared in his ear, flailing about with one hand in an effort to hit the right button and eliminate the obnoxious sound. Scrubbing at his eyelids to remove the stickiness that was gluing them shut, he blinked blearily at the clock. Captain Astro appeared to be sneering at the weary teen, his hand outflung, his oversized index and middle fingers - which Justin suspected compensated for inadequacy elsewhere - pointing at the numbers which, as he watched, flipped over to read 5:31. Fuck. Even though he’d slept for more than eight hours, the first time in weeks that he’d gotten that much shut-eye, he felt utterly exhausted. Apparently it was true, he mourned, that although you could catch up on missing rest by sleeping longer than usual, you wouldn’t necessarily feel refreshed.

He dragged his body out of the bed, leaving the bed linens dangling over the side, snagged a pair of clean underwear, and shuffled down the hall toward bathroom. As he pushed open the door, though, a foul odor had him gagging and backing away. Were the pipes backed up or was there some other problem? he wondered. Regardless, he couldn’t force himself to enter the room for his morning shower. With a quick sniff at his pits - not too bad, thankfully - the blond lad decided he’d head downstairs instead and give himself a cat bath in the half bathroom.

When Justin got to the bottom of the stairs, he realised he’d forgotten to grab a flannel from the linen closet. He changed direction, planning to nab a cloth from the kitchen, emitting an “Oof!” as he ran into Debbie in the doorway.

“Whoa, Sunshine!” Debbie reached out a hand to steady him as he rebounded from her ample bosom. She patted her chest, cackling, “At least you can’t hurt yourself, running into me full tilt like that. I’m well padded.”

Flushing, the teenager mumbled, “Sorry about that. I didn’t expect you to be down here already.”

“I thought I’d get a batch of cookies in the oven first thing,” the redhead disclosed, “so you’d have a treat for yourself and Daphne, come lunchtime.”

“Ta. Of course,” Justin smiled cheekily, “she may never know about them if they’re needed to satisfy my hunger pangs.”

“Guess I’ll just have to package up a double ration for you, provided you promise that girl will get one of the containers,” Deb retorted, her eyes twinkling. “I’ll be interrogating her as to what she thought of them the next time she’s over here, so you’d better be honest.”

“Scout’s honour,” Justin vowed, purposely holding up the wrong number of fingers.

Debbie cocked an admonishing eyebrow at the teen, but before she could say anything, they heard the sound of the toilet flushing upstairs.

“Geesh,” the teen mumbled, nose scrunching as he recalled the awful reek. He didn’t know how Vic could put up with it, even if it was only to take a piss. “I meant to tell you that the toilet must be backed up or something. It really smells bad.”

“I was in such a hurry to get the cookies in the oven that I forgot to tap on your door to warn you that Vic’s got a bad case of the runs,” Debbie informed him. “I’m glad you came down here to wash up; it’s best to leave the upstairs loo free for him this morning.”

“Is Vic okay?” Justin asked, concern flooding through him. “He looked rather peaked yesterday and was complaining about being tired.”

“He’s fine, Kiddo.” the motherly woman reassured him. “The HIV cocktail doesn’t always agree with him, though; it’s part and parcel of that fucking illness.”

Justin frowned, still a bit worried.

“Really, Sunshine, it’s naught to worry yourself about,” Deb insisted. “This happens from time to time, but it’s just a minor hiccup. It’s nothing compared to what he went through a while ago, when we racked up a massive debt taking a trip to Italy because we didn’t think Vic would make it.”

The teenager was reassured by Debbie’s relaxed demeanor that Vic wasn’t really sick, that it was simply a normal fluctuation in his illness. Wishing there was something he could do to alleviate their money woes, he began, “I could-”

“Don’t you dare offer to help with the expenses,” Debbie cautioned, shaking a red-taloned finger at him. “It’s only money; spending time with family is a fuckton more important - I wouldn’t have forgone that trip with my brother for anything. Besides, we’re paying down our debt, slowly but surely. Now, you’d better get that cute tush of yours in gear,” she recommended, “or you’ll miss your bus.”

The blond lad jumped as he glanced at the wall clock and noticed how little time he had left to get ready. He dashed into the downstairs loo, musing as he washed up that he hated feeling like a freeloader. He knew neither Debbie nor Vic viewed him that way but, still, there must be some small token he could give his surrogate mum to show his appreciation. The boy’s mood brightened as he remembered that he needed to pick up the refills for his allergy meds soon; the local pharmacy almost always had a few simple bouquets in stock. Even if they weren’t as extravagant as the tiger lillies the detective had presented her with at Thanksgiving, some posies were bound to make Debbie smile. And even if the flowers made him sneeze and sniffle, he didn’t care - it would be well worth it to elicit a happy smile from the warm-hearted woman.

 

With a new storm front moving in, the second half of the teen’s journey to St James was excruciatingly slow, passengers waiting to be picked up at every stop and the heavy vehicle having trouble finding traction on the slick pavement as they got underway again. The teenager watched as more and more people crowded on - men and women in business suits, workers in overalls, university students in jeans - realising that others had cottoned on to his notion of heading to school, or the workplace, earlier than usual, just so they would arrive on time. He guessed that some of the passengers, who looked less than thrilled to be riding a PAT bus, were taking public transportation as an alternative to navigating the treacherous roads in their cars.

Soon, there was standing room only, riders sandwiching themselves two and three deep in the aisle between the seats. Justin watched as a heavily pregnant young woman tried to manoeuvre her way through the press of people, ignored by the other riders, who were perhaps wary of the serpent tattoo peeking out from beneath her jumper and the multiple facial piercings. As soon as she reached the middle of the bus, he stood up and offered her his seat, even though it meant he ended up with his head pressed sideways into the armpit of a tall, bearded guy who smelled like he hadn’t had any recent acquaintance with soap or water. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about falling asleep and overshooting his stop, he reflected philosophically, with the way his olfactory sense was being assaulted and the way his neck was crooked.

The eyebrow and septum piercings weren’t that bad, he decided as he observed the woman more closely from the eye that wasn’t buried in Smelly Guy’s coat, but the arrangement of four studs, in pairs of two, on each side of her bottom lip was off-putting, even a little intimidating. The teen’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember the name of the piercing. He’d had time to kill when he was waiting to get his nipple pierced and had browsed some of the literature, although he quickly wished he hadn’t - some of the images were way disturbing. The piercing was a snake something or other, he was pretty sure, which would make sense as an accompaniment to the vibrant, deadly serpent coiling around her neck. Well, duh, he thought when it finally popped into head; it was a _snakebite_.

It totally grossed him out, though, when the girl smiled at him broadly in gratitude as she sat down, and he saw the piercing through her tongue. It squicked him out and made him shiver, especially since it looked like there was a tiny bit of food stuck there. Yuck. Fucking unhygienic.

Despite the tattoo and piercings, she had a sweet smile as she rubbed her hand over the swell of her stomach and murmured soothingly at the baby, which was visibly moving around. Maybe it was practicing its morning taekwondo routine, the teen mused, snickering. Or perhaps the unborn baby wanted to crack open _An Introduction to Forensic Genetics_ , the textbook that was sticking out of a bulging knapsack. Huh, he thought, it might be an interesting challenge to try and capture the sweetness of her gaze and the contentedness she exhibited in regard to her impending motherhood, and contrast it with the harshness of the tattoos and piercings.

The blond lad had long since committed her image to memory - the drawing would be a cool addition to his portfolio - when the bus finally halted in front of St James. He felt like a sardine being expelled from a tin as he stumbled out of the vehicle, gratefully inhaling lungfuls of fresh air. Just as well that he hadn’t been able to take a shower this morning, he supposed, since being up close and personal with the stinky dude would have negated all his efforts.

As the wind whipped through his thin jacket and the snow began to fall more heavily, Justin determined that he’d cleared his nasal passages sufficiently. He quickly trotted up the stairs, slipped through the doors into the school, and made his way to the library.

“Bonum mane,” he cheerfully greeted Frau Rose.

“Et tu puer scholar,” the librarian responded with a smile, looking up from where she was reshelving books. Raising her eyebrows, she inquired drily, “Does that marking on your cheek have a particular significance?”

Justin reached up and felt his cheek, wondering what she meant. His skin did feel strangely textured, which made him worry that he was developing some kind of rash or, even worse, an explosion of acne - a teenager’s bane. “Um, would it be okay if I looked in the mirror?” he asked, gesturing toward her staff restroom.

“Of course. You don’t need to ask. You’re welcome to use it at any time.”

The lad hastened into the small restroom, turning on the light and studying his face in the mirror, immediately noticing a red cross-hatching on his cheek. What the fuck? As he again ran his fingers over the blotchy spot, he recalled how he’d been pressed up again Smelly Guy’s rough wool coat, which must have caused the weird pattern. It should fade well before his calculus class, thankfully, which meant he wouldn’t be subjected to ridicule from Hobbs and his cronies, at least not in regard to a ‘gay rash’.

He splashed some water on his face to relieve the sluggishness that still afflicted him, before leaving the bathroom and rejoining Frau Rose. “The bus was sardine city this morning,” he explained, “and I ended up with half my face pressed against a roughly woven coat.”

With a solemn expression, the librarian deadpanned, “That’s better than the lopsided lettering it resembles. I thought for a moment that you’d had _St J_ tattooed on your cheek to show your school spirit.”

The teenager burst out laughing. He supposed pretty much any combination of letters could be discerned in the oddball pattern that had been left on his face, although he’d never in a million years feel that kind of affection for St James. “I won’t be acquiring a tattoo anytime soon,” he assured the woman, whose eyes were now twinkling mischievously. At least not one that would be visible to one and all, he thought, although a sexy tat on his-

“Hmm,” Frau Rose interrupted his musings, “it looks like you’re having second thoughts.”

“Erm, no,” Justin prevaricated. “No tattoo. But I am trying to come up with a logo for” - he paused, momentarily at a loss for how to describe Brain - “uh, a friend for his new agency.”

“Would you like to use my computer?” the friendly woman offered. “You’re welcome to it, whenever I’m not using it, which means it’s pretty much always available at this time of morning.”

“That would be great!” Justin beamed at Frau Rose. “I can use the program from my IT class, and alternate between my sketchpad and the computer.”

Gesturing toward the computer, she clapped her hands together once and winked at the teen. “In tempore illo. Fugit inreparabile tempus.”

The blond lad remarked, “Virgil must’ve been a total killjoy, constantly admonishing his listeners not to procrastinate.”

“You young scamp,” Frau Rose shook her head in rueful fondness, “would you prefer ‘Time’s a wastin’?”

Justin laughed as he recalled Debbie using that very admonishment the day before. “You sound like my surrogate mum,” he said, “so I guess that means I’d better get my arse, uh, my rear-” He stumbled to a halt, mortified.

“No worries lad,” the librarian drolled, “I know what part of the anatomy that is. But, yes, it would behove you to get your rear - or your arse, whichever you prefer - in gear.”

“Um, yeah, I’ll do that then,” Justin mumbled, settling in front of the computer and opening the program he wanted, whilst glancing out the window at the heavily falling snow. Hmm. Maybe he could help Gus build his first snowman. He hadn’t spent nearly enough time with the tyke lately, and they could have loads of fun playing in the snow. After that, they could drink hot chocolate and warm themselves in front of a roaring fire. The teen barely noticed when Brian inserted himself into the imaginary snow day, the three boys relaxing together as they sipped their hot chocolate…

“Ugh,” Justin grunted in dissatisfaction half an hour later. The logo that he’d sketched on his notepad didn’t look any better in a colourised version on the computer. The colours were too muted, although he doubted it would help if he made them bolder.

“That bad?” the librarian questioned, coming up behind Justin.

“It’s just blah.” Justin scowled at the image, sliding the chair to the side so Frau Rose could take a look. “It looks like the emblem for a supermarket chain, although,” he laughed, “if it were a _Q_ instead of a _K_ , it would be a vast improvement on the Big Q’s logo.”

“I won’t dispute that,” the librarian agreed, chuckling as she peered at the logo. “Of course, part of the problem with the Big Q’s emblem is the garish shades they chose.”

“That and it looks like a drunken clown designed it.” Justin commented.

“What kind of company does your friend own?” Frau Rose inquired. “That might do for a children’s clothing store.”

He let out a wry chuckle. He couldn’t imagine Brian advertising a run-of-the mill children’s store of any kind - like the one this logo would belong to - although he’d undoubtedly be happy to promote a children’s line for Armani, especially if he he got free designer clothing for Gus. “It’s an advertising agency, one that’s supposed to be cutting edge,” he clarified. “Unfortunately, this logo is anything but avant-garde.”

“I’m afraid you’re correct,” Frau Rose confirmed. “Even though I know nothing about advertising, that logo lacks pizzazz. You’ll just have to try again. It’ll probably take quite a few attempts before you hit on the right design, and you’ll want to give your friend a few to choose from.”

Justin was amused as he envisioned Brian’s reaction to his latest attempt. He might even condemn it as worse than the the lopsided K Justin had initially drawn. Once he had some logos for the adman to review, he’d have to be sure to feed him his more feeble efforts first, just to watch the smoke come out of his ears.

Noting that it was a quarter to eight, Justin made sure he’d saved his work in his student account and closed the program. He then smiled at the librarian. “Thanks for letting me use your computer.”

“Like I said earlier,” Frau Rose reiterated, “it’s yours as long as I don’t need it.”

As he went to put his sketchpad back in his backpack, the yellow Post-it he’d affixed to the cover caught his eye. “Do you have any books with a good selection of Catholic hymns?” he inquired. “I’d like to find one to create a gift for my surrogate mum. Um,” he added, “a book on calligraphy would be good as well; I have a neat penmanship, but I’d like something that looks fancier.”

The librarian bustled over to the bookshelves, quickly returning with two different texts. She pulled the cards out of the pockets at the front of the books, notated that she was checking them out to J Taylor, and handed them to Justin. “You might want to consider _Ave Maria_ or _Salve Regina_ ,” she recommended. They’re both hymns in praise of the Virgin Mary, and I’d think they’d appeal to a mother. _The Calligrapher’s Bible_ should be the perfect companion for your endeavour,” she joked.

Laughing at her witticism, the lad tucked the books into his rucksack. “Is it okay if I keep these over the break?” he asked. “I may not finish the present until right before Christmas.”

“Considering the hymnal has never been checked out, and that it’s been eight months since anyone looked at the _bible_ ,” Frau Rose responded, her tone dry, “I don’t foresee that being a problem.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Justin said farewell.

“Off with you,” the librarian ordered, teasing, “Tempus fugit.”

The boy hoped time would fly, and that Dickhead Dixon’s class would be over before he knew it.

 

While Justin was trudging up the stairs at St James, Brian was rolling over in his bed. He punched at the pillow beneath his head - the one the store had touted as luxurious goose down, so soft you’d swear it was a cloud - before removing the lumpy item and hurling it to the floor. “Fucking thing is filled with rocks,” he grunted.

At least none of his friends were around to watch him lose his temper - he refused to call it a queen out - the stud thought as he sent the other pillows flying after the first one. “Fucking blond brat,” he groused. As usual, it was all Justin’s fault. If the lad had come home with him the night before, he’d be there to take care of his raging hard-on, and an enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee would be wafting from the kitchen.

As it was now, though, he was lying in a cold bed with no coffee or blowjob in his future. Grunting in displeasure, Brian twisted his body to look at the alarm clock, noticing it was almost eight already. What the fuck? He almost never slept this late, unless it was the weekend and there was a blond bed-warmer beside him. Yep. It was all Justin’s fault. Handjobs weren’t cutting it any more, even though the brunet had almost worn his fingers to stubs during the night.

Rolling to the edge of his large platform bed, Brian then heaved himself up slowly. Nature was calling and he had to go take a piss before anything else. Then he would see about making that damn coffee monster of a machine work before taking a much needed shower - accompanied by another jerk-off session, of course.

Once he’d relieved the pressure from his bladder, Brian washed his hands, glancing in the mirror as he did so. He almost jumped back before he realised that the creature staring back at him wasn’t a stranger. The hair above his forehead was sticking straight up - it reminded him of that horrid troll doll with the hideous fuchsia hair. To add to the horror, the hair on the left side of his head was completely flat, while the hair on the right side was tangled in some sort of weird corkscrew curls.

Did he fight a dragon in his sleep or something? he wondered. He couldn’t think of any other way his normally beautiful and well-kept hair could get into such a state. Trying to run his fingers through the mess on his right temple, he hissed as the hair snagged and pulled at his scalp. He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to the mirror. Wait, was that come in his hair? How the fuck did that get in-

Oh. He _had_ been pretty enthusiastic in his efforts the night before - desperate to get off. Since this was all the brat’s fault, he should give him a call and make him come over to comb the snarls out of his hair. He stepped out of the bathroom, snatching his discarded jeans from the floor at the foot of the bed, and fished his mobile out of the pocket. It was only when he had pressed number one on his speed dial and the phone began ringing that he recalled it was Monday. Dammit. The kid wouldn’t answer while he was in class. Rather than leave a message, he hastily ended the call. No way was he going to sound like a desperate, lovelorn dyke.

With the knowledge that it would be easier to brush his hair out while it was wet, he resolved to deal with the bird’s nest once he was in the shower. Before then, though, he wanted to get started on that coffee - a bit of caffeine might improve his miserable mood. Forcefully dragging his gaze away from the mirror, Brian made his way into the kitchen, ready to face the dragon. He dumped grounds into the filter, reminding himself that he needed to have Cynthia write down the correct measurement - there had to be some way to get her to do that without giving away that he didn’t pay attention to the demonstration she’d given him last week.

As soon as the coffee finished percolating, he filled his AdStud mug, white granules resting on the bottom, maybe an inch deep - hopefully enough to offset any deficiencies in the brew. He stirred the liquid before taking a careful sip, immediately grimacing at the grittiness. Goddammit. His efforts the day before had been more successful. He persisted in taking a couple more swallows of the hot beverage before giving up, pouring the remainder from his mug, and then the carafe, down the drain.

Shit. If only Starbucks delivered. Brian supposed he could pull on his dirty clothes from yesterday and visit the closest Starbucks, but after a glance out the window at the falling snow, he nixed that idea. He didn’t feel like struggling to extricate his jeep from under whatever snowbank the city snowploughs had buried it in.

If only he had a minion or a slave that would do all these things for him, he sighed, before brightening up. Wait, he did have a minion - two, in fact! Grabbing his phone again, he pressed ‘4’ to call his able assistant.

“Cynthia Moore speaking,” came the way-too-cheerful greeting as the blonde picked up.

Brian snorted. “Duh,” he muttered. “I need you-”

Cynthia cut him off. “About time you admitted that, boss,” she deadpanned.

The brunet rolled his eyes - allowing himself the pleasure as there was no one around to call him on it. “I _need_ you to go and get me a large cup of Americano on your way here,” he said, ignoring his friend’s comment. “My car is snowed in,” he offered as an explanation.

Brian could visualise Cynthia rolling her eyes at the paltry excuse as she replied, “Uh-huh. Like I’m not your coffee girl most days anyhow.”

“Well then, take a telling and bring me a cup,” the man insisted.

Could you hear someone give an insouciant shrug? he pondered as the blonde acquiesced, “Sure. I’ll charge coffee drinks for you, me, and Ted to your AmEx. And I’ll grab some pastries for breakfast while I’m at it.”

The adman cringed at the thought of all the carbs. At this rate, he’d never lose the flab he’d put on, no matter how many visits he made to the gym.

“You won’t be able to resist, will you?” Cynthia teased.

Bloody woman knew him too well, Brian thought, making an unintelligible, growling noise. “Just get yourself here as fast as possible,” he told her. “I’ll grab a quick shower in the interim.”

“Do that,” the woman advised, amusement evident in her voice. “You’ll want to make a good impression on me and Ted, after all.”

The cheek of her, Brian thought, his lips curling upward in a reluctant smile as he pressed ‘end call’ without saying anything else. He set the phone aside, sniffing at his armpit to gauge the amount of time he’d have to give to his personal hygiene. “Ugh, rank,” he mumbled. The night of tossing around and sweating hadn’t been kind to him.

What the heck? He paused, noticing a smudge as he went to lower his arm. Reaching up, he scraped at the substance with his fingernail. Huh. Apparently, it hadn’t just been the hair on his head that he’d decorated during his nighttime exertions. He chuckled as he admitted to himself that it wasn’t only the general tossing and turning that had caused the strong BO.

Brian stepped into the bathroom and turned the knob in his shower to get the water warmed up, checking it was set to his favoured thirty-nine degrees centigrade. There were some advantages to Justin not living with him - he thought half-heartedly - no need to suffer through freezing showers.

He did miss the rosy hue Justin’s porcelain skin would take on as the boy stood under the hot water, though, he mused as he stepped under the steaming spray. There was something intensely erotic about the way his skin would change colour like that. Like a boiling lobster, he thought comically, a slightly hysterical chuckle leaving his lips. God, he was a mess this morning - he had to pull himself together before Ted and Cynthia arrived.

Reaching for his expensive body wash, he lathered his hands before scrubbing at his armpits and then running his fingers across the planes of his chest. Ah, that felt good, he thought. Brian leaned his head back against the tiled wall and closed his eyes as he continued to lave himself, imagining someone else’s fingers gliding along his skin.

Pale hands slid down the centre of his abdomen, carefully following the contours of his muscles and leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. He arched his back off the tiled wall, head leaned back and eyes closed. “What do you want?” his companion asked in a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the shower.

Brian grunted, his hips twitching forwards as nails scraped below his belly button. He didn’t want to play one of Justin’s games; he just wanted to get off before going to work. Was that too much to ask?

Justin chuckled warmly. “What was that?” he teased, a finger ghosting across the top of the brunet’s erection.

“Blow me, Sunshine,” the older man snapped, irritated that his lover felt the need to ruin his comfortable, sleepy haze with stupid chit-chat.

He could almost hear the blond roll his eyes at him from where he was kneeling at his feet. “You’re in a mood,” the teen mumbled, pressing a kiss against his hip bone. “Blow job it is,” he added.

Thank fuck, thought Brian with relief, thrusting his pelvis closer to his lover’s face. Perhaps Justin would let up on the power games for once and just give him a simple morning blow job like a good little boy. A tongue suddenly swiping at the head of his cock startled him out of his musings.

A sharp breath escaped him, lungs squeezing and forcing a moan through his vocal chords. Two sure hands grabbed his butt cheeks, bringing his hips closer to Justin’s face, and the blond’s mouth enveloped his shaft in a warm and wet hug.

“Yes,” he hissed, widening his stance to better keep his balance on the slippery floor of the shower. He could feel Justin’s lips stretch around his member in a smile, a clear sign of satisfaction. Brat.

The hands on his arse squeezed his plump flesh rhythmically, in time with the bobbing of Justin’s head as the blond slid his hot mouth up and down his throbbing shaft, causing Brian’s brain to struggle to process everything that was happening. “Jus,” he breathed, eyes fluttering open slightly to a  glimpse of his bathroom’s white ceiling.

Justin hmmed around his mouthful and dug his hands into Brian’s arse a little more, fingers brushing his crack. “Nngh,” the brunet protested. He didn’t have time for this; couldn’t the little twat just give him a simple blowjob? Shouldn’t be hard.

The curious fingers pressed in between his cheeks a little more insistently just as Brian’s cock hit the back of his lover’s throat. He moaned.

His mouth snug around Brian’s shaft, the blond slowly pulled back, until his lips barely kissed the tip.

“Goddammit,” the brunet growled, his head dropping forward. He slipped the fingers of both hands into the flaxen hair and tugged on the strands, urging the boy to continue his ministrations.

The brat merely giggled, his breath caressing the sensitive head of Brian’s and causing him to harden even further. Justin’s tongue peeked out of his mouth, and he licked up the bead of moisture that had formed at the tip. “Mhmm,” he hummed.

“There’s more where that came from,” Brian hissed. “You’d find out if you’d just get on with it.”

Blue eyes peered up at him, before the lad swallowed him down smoothly until his nose was nestled against Brian’s groin. The sight, and the sensation, were so pleasurable that he barely noticed when a finger slipped inside him, not meeting any resistance despite Brian not having bottomed for his lover in a couple of days.

Something about that didn’t seem quite right, the brunet thought, blinking in confusion. He glanced down, realising he was the one fingering his ass, that Justin wasn’t actually kneeling in front of him, worshipping his cock. Brian half-shrugged. The brat had certainly been in that position more than once, driving him wild, so he might as well enjoy himself. Pressing his finger in deeper, he fell back into the fantasy.

“Like that, do you?” the boy murmured in a husky voice as he pulled back again.

Brian salivated at the erotic vision - the boy’s lips swollen, a strand of spittle and precome connecting his bottom lip to the tip of Brian’s cock. “More,” he demanded.

“Sure,” Justin replied mischievously. He didn’t touch Brian’s straining member, but he did remove the finger that had been ever so lightly brushing against the brunet’s sweet spot.

As Brian let out a whine of protest, the lad inserted two fingers into his arse, drumming lightly against his prostate. Fuck, that felt good.

“More?” Justin teased, lazily swiping his tongue around the sensitive frenulum.

“Nngh,” Brian grunted in an effort to encourage the boy, pistoning his pelvis at him. When that mouth enveloped him again, swallowing around his almost painfully hard member, Brian nearly embarrassed himself by coming too soon.

The nimble fingers inside him retreated slightly, until only the tips were still buried in his warmth, then pushed back in forcefully, nudging his prostate again. Brian’s knees wobbled. “Yes,” he whispered.

Justin started pulling his digits out and pushing them back in repeatedly, increasing the suction on his cock at the same time. The brunet bent his unstable knees slightly to press down against the pleasurable intrusion and a tingling heat began to coil in his stomach. He whined in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut as the fingers inside him increased their tempo and the wet warmth around him engulfed his member fully once more.

Fuck. He wasn’t going to last much longer. “Fuck, Jus,” he panted, pressing down against the rapidly moving digits. His legs began to tremble as the heat pooling in his abdomen began to peak.

Justin hmmed around his cock, nose buried in Brian’s pubic hair, and pressed his fingers harshly against the bundle of nerves in his arse. The brunet couldn’t hold back any longer. He shot into that warm cavern, again and again, legs shaking and hips jerking. Then, finally sated, he slid down the shower wall, his knees giving up for once and for all.

Long moments passed before he realised the kid was saying something. “My turn,” he insisted, prodding at the side of Brian’s head.

“Quit poking me with your finger,” the brunet complained, swatting at the offending object. When his hand met nothing except air, he glanced around blearily. “Fuck,” he grunted. There was more to that scene; he wasn’t ready to return to the Justin-less present, not yet anyroad.

He happily re-immersed himself in the fantasy, hearing the blond chide, “Hey! Take it easy. That’s my cock you just slapped, Big Guy.”

Brian flushed in embarrassment. Christ. The kid had hoovered him so thoroughly that he must’ve blacked out for a second. He’d even forgotten for a moment that Justin was in the shower with him.

He peered up at the brat, who had a smug smile on his face. “Sucked your brains out, huh?” Justin crowed.

“Hardly,” Brian denied, his face flushing more as he uttered the blatant lie. “I was merely crouching down so I could blow you.”

“Yeah, right. You need to work on that sales pitch,” the lad mocked. “I’ve never heard sitting on your arse described as a _crouch_.”

“It was the quickest way to get to the floor,” the brunet dug himself in deeper. “You were crowding me.”

One blond eyebrow shot up in amazement, before the lad giggled. Tapping his index finger against his lips, he mused, “My mouth surrounding your cock and my fingers up your arse could be described as _overwhelming_ , which I guess fits the definition of _crowding in_.”

Smug fucking twat. “You want a blow job or not?” Brian asked. “I’ve gotta leave for work soon.”

“There’s plenty of time,” Justin claimed. “It didn’t take you _that_ long to come, Bri.”

Brian flushed again. It _had_ been over rather quickly. Shifting around so that he was on his knees, he nudged his nose against the base of Justin’s cock and breathed in the boy’s tastalising scent. The smell was so arousing that he felt his own member hardening. Christ. All it took was one whiff of _Justin_ , and he wanted to come again.

Of course, the boy noticed his predicament. “Didn’t you get enough?” he teased.

“There’s no such thing as enough.” Brian reiterated one of his favourite maxims. It was nothing but the truth where Justin was concerned.

“Then you should finger yourself while you blow me,” the teen instructed.

Brian’s cock jumped, clearly approving that idea. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager, though, he thought to himself. “How about I finger you instead?” he offered.

Justin’s breath hitched - though if it was because of Brian’s words or the hand sliding up and down the blond’s shaft, he didn’t know - before answering with a question of his own, “How is that going to help you come?”

Brian wasn’t about to admit to how much sucking Justin off stimulated him. That, combined with watching the boy succumb to ecstacy, was almost enough to make Brian come. “I’ll just give myself a hand job,” he said.

“No,” Justin declared, eyes heavy-lidded and voice raspy. “I want to watch you fuck yourself with your fingers while you go down on me. It’ll be smoking hot.”

Brian swallowed convulsively. Unwilling to resist any longer, he spread his legs wider, reached behind himself, and ran the tip of his index finger around his entrance before pushing in a little. At the same time, he took one of Justin’s balls into his mouth, rolled it around, and sucked gently.

“That’s it,” the boy spurred him on. “Now add another finger.”

Brian complied, inserting his middle finger beside the other one and sliding them in deeper. He removed his mouth from Justin’s left nut, intending to give some attention to the other one, when a loud banging and shouts of “Brian! Where are you? Open up!” interrupted him.

What the fuck? Brian shook his head in bewilderment, opened his eyes, and started to tell the blond, “I’ll be right ba-” That’s when he realised he was kneeling on the floor of his shower, two fingers up his arse, hair unwashed, and it was Cynthia and Ted’s voices clamouring for his attention.

Pissed at having his fantasy ruined, Brian decided his employees could bloody well wait. It wouldn’t take him more than eight minutes to finish his shower and get dressed.

In fact, he was ready in seven minutes, although his hair wasn’t styled and his feet were still bare as he stomped down the steps from his bedroom area and over to the door. Throwing it open, he discovered that Ted and Cynthia had set up a picnic on the floor. They were seated on Ted’s overcoat, sipping at coffee drinks and munching on pastries.

“What the fuck are you doing here so early?” Brian demanded irascibly.

Cynthia stared at him, her lips twitching in amusement. “You told me to get myself here _as fast as possible_ ,” she reminded him, perfectly mimicking his peremptory tone.

Annoyed that she was correct, Brian turned his accusatory gaze on Ted. “What’s your excuse, Schmidt?”

“What time do you think it is, Bri?” the accountant asked, setting down his cup of coffee, rising to his feet, and extending a hand to help Cynthia up.

“Five minutes to nine?” Brian estimated. “Look at your watch if you want to know the exact fucking minute.”

He rolled his eyes as Theodore made a show of pushing back his shirt sleeve and reading the time on his wristwatch. “No,” the older man shook his head as he smirked at Brian, “it’s almost nine-thirty.”

 

At the moment Brian was testing the temperature in his shower, Justin was swiveling his head back and forth between Daphne on his left and Sydney on his right, casting reassuring glances at both girls. He’d been quite astonished when the cheerleader elected to sit next to him again, rather than returning to the seat beside Hobbs. Maybe she was cutting her ties to the jock sooner than she’d indicated she would?

Both Syd and Daph - along with most of the students - looked absolutely petrified as Mr Dixon paced back and forth in front of the class, slapping a thick stack of papers against the palm of one hand. The only real exception was Chris, who simply looked bored as he sat sprawled at his desk, banging the toe of one shoe against the chair in front of him, driving the boy seated there to scoot his desk forward. Every time he did that, however, Chris would slide his desk forward too, so that he could continue to torture the other student. Dixon, of course, ignored both the athlete’s behaviour and the entreating glances cast toward him by Hobbs’ victim.

Tired of watching the maths teacher - he’d been pacing to and fro for close to twelve minutes, since before the eight o’clock bell rang, only barking at the students to “Sit down!” and “Be quiet!” - Justin doodled on a blank page in his notebook. An image of the dark-haired boy sitting in front of Hobbs gradually took shape, Justin depicting him turning around and stretching out a leg to push away the jock’s desk. He missed the desk entirely, though, his foot shooting beneath the work surface and slamming into Hobbs’ balls. In a thought bubble above the intended victim’s head, Justin wrote, “Oops!” with dark-haired lad smirking at his tormentor, who was now doubled over in agony.

Hearing a snickering from his right, the blond lad glanced over at Sydney. After checking to make sure that Dixon wasn’t watching, she tilted her notebook toward him so that he could read the message she’d printed, “He just creamed his pants, and not in a positive, life-affirming way.”

Justin bit his lip and gazed down at his desk, a ripple of laughter passing through his slender frame. Where had the pom-pom girl gotten that expression from? It was almost like she was channeling Brian. Sniggering, he neatly printed Sydney’s message beneath the caricature, deciding it made the perfect caption. He wished he dared pin it up above Chris’ desk the next morning for the jock to discover - it would make him froth at the mouth - but it would be too obvious who the artist was. Not only did Justin not want to be suspended from school so close to finals week, he also didn’t want Hobbs’ wrath to fall on the dweeby, dark-haired kid who was one of the jock’s favourite targets.

Christ. Was Dixon ever going to start the calculus lesson? the lad wondered as the second hand ticked off another minute on the wall clock. Just as he was considering pulling out the calligraphy bible and practising a new form of writing, the door to the classroom banged open, and a late arrival darted inside.

“How kind of you to join us, Mr Antonich,” the maths instructor drawled. “It won’t do you any good, however. With your consistent tardiness and unexcused absences this semester, you now have a grand tally of fifteen strikes against you, which means a grade and a half will be docked from your end-of-semester score. You passed neither Saturday’s pop quiz nor Friday’s test, and you barely scraped by with a D on the midterm. It has become statistically impossible for you to pass this course.”

“B- but, Mr Dixon,” the lad stuttered, a look of horror on his face. “I ca- can’t fail. My mum has been working two jobs so she could send me to a good school like St Ja-”

“Spare me the sob story, Mr Antonich,” the teacher interrupted tersely, not an ounce of sympathy in his tone. “If you’d been studying, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. You will be given the opportunity to retake the course this summer; perhaps you can redeem yourself then.”

“Please, Mr Dixon,” the lad pleaded, “I’ll study extra hard for the final. I know I can raise my grade-”

Justin winced, caught between sympathy for the other student’s plight and embarrassment at the way he was begging in front of the whole class.

Dixon cut Antonich off again. “If you haven’t learned to solve the most basic equations by this point in the semester, there’s no way you’re going to learn enough in less than two weeks to raise your grade to a C, much less the A you’d need to actually pass calculus.”

“B- but-” the boy stopped speaking, looking as if he was barely holding back tears.

“I considered letting you occupy your desk until the end of the semester,” Dixon said, “but that would be a disservice to both the other students and to you - we’re well past the point at which you ceased comprehending the material. Since the school can’t have you running about, doing God knows what between eight and nine in the morning, I’ve arranged for you sit in on eleventh grade maths for the remainder of the school year.”

Paling, Justin glanced at Daphne, who looked just as shocked as he was. It would be beyond humiliating, he thought, to be sent back a grade, like he was a total dunce. He’d rather be knifed and left for dead.

“Take these,” Dixon commanded, holding out what must’ve been Antonich’s last test and Saturday’s pop quiz.

The boy stretched out a shaking hand, not looking the instructor in the eye as he accepted the papers, the topmost of which was marked with a large, red F.

“Ms Hearns is expecting you,” Dixon continued implacably. “She’s in the same classroom as last year, so you should have no trouble finding the right room.”

Head down, Antonich plodded out of the room, the failed tests crumpled in his fist.

Dixon settled his attention on the rest of the students. “Don’t think you’re so much smarter than Mr Antonich,” he warned them in a direful voice. “I have every expectation that more of you will be returning to pre-calculus for the spring semester.

“Shit.” Justin heard one of the students behind him grumble. “I don’t want to endure foul-breath Hearns for another semester. Every time she breathed on me, I thought I was gonna puke.”

Although it had nothing to do with Ms Hearns knowledge of maths, Justin had to admit that she did have the worst halitosis ever. She had a horrid habit of standing right next to a student’s desk, mouth open, and breathing heavily. It made concentrating on the subject matter challenging.

Dixon paused for a moment, tilting his head in consideration. “Provided you actually devote yourself to studying, I suppose there is a remote chance that you’ll prove me wrong. Since I want to give all of you the opportunity to succeed, I decided to combine your scores from Friday’s test and Saturday’s quiz for a cumulative grade.”

“Does that mean we’re all math wizards now?” one of the pupils at the back of the classroom wisecracked.

The maths instructor arched his eyebrows. “In your dreams,” he retorted. “The most consistent student in this class has been Mr Hobbs,” he praised the jock, placing the two exams down in front Chris.

Justin exchanged an eye-roll with Sydney. All it took to get a C+ every single time was to be a boneheaded, brown-nosing, homophobic jock. No thanks.

He was stupefied when, after bestowing that praise on Hobbs, the teacher didn’t immediately move away from Chris’ desk, instead chastising, albeit in a rather mild tone, “There are other students who scored higher than you on the tests, Mr Hobbs. It might be advisable for you to join a study group, perhaps with Ms Thompson.”

He strode over to Sydney’s newly adopted desk, observing, “She even seems to have had a salutary effect on Mr Taylor’s understanding of the subject matter.”

Without bothering to glance at the grades she’d earned, Sydney gave the instructor a cheeky smile and contradicted him. “You’ve got it backwards, Mr Dixon. It’s _Mr Taylor_ who’s tutoring _me_.”

Dixon glowered at the girl, who merely smirked back at him while fiddling with the end of her ponytail. She then flipped it over her shoulder - it seemed to be a signature move - lifted a finely shaped blonde eyebrow, and stared the teacher down.

An anonymous voice called out, “Hoorah! Take Dickhead down a peg!”

Whistles and laughter sounded from the corners of the room.

“Silence!” Dixon bellowed, trying to regain control. His face reddening, he turned his back on the impudent pom-pom girl.

Justin and Daphne grinned at each other, both of them relishing the way Sydney was able to make Dixon back down.

“Ms Brown,” the teacher took out his ire on the student seated in front of Sydney, dangling the tests in her face, “you’re the most likely candidate to join Mr Antonich in pre-calculus. You’d better put your time in detention to good use if you want to avoid the same fate.”

The girl emitted a whining noise, and Justin suspected what was coming. Sure enough, she moaned, “I hafta go.”

Dixon shook his head, a disbelieving expression crossing his face. “Maybe,” he recommended drily, “you should consider studying in the loo at home. You could possibly _solve two problems_ at once.”

The other students tittered, and Justin couldn’t help thinking that Dixon might have hit on the right _solution_ for the full-bladdered girl.

“Ms Watson,” the teacher sharply reprimanded one of the tittering students. “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you. Your cumulative score for this class is only one point higher than Ms Brown’s.”

The girl stopped mid-laugh, an aghast expression on her face. “Nooo,” she moaned.

Justin imagined that’s what a lowing cow would sound like.

“In fact,” Dixon gloated as he dropped the tests, which were covered with red marks, on the ginger’s desk, “you’re in a three-way tie with two other students, Ms Farley and Mr Hudson, for some of the lowest scores I’ve ever recorded in my grade book.”

He sauntered toward the back of the classroom, stopping in front of the students whose names he’d just mentioned. The two teenagers, whose heads had been touching as the boy whispered in the girl’s ear, quickly parted and sat up ramrod straight, their faces paling. “Given the way you butchered these tests, Mr Hudson,” Dixon excoriated the lad’s results, “I assume you’ll be apprenticing as a butcher.”

The boy shook his head and opened his mouth, presumably to object that he had a different career in mind, but Dixon didn’t give him a chance to get a word in edgewise.

“The butcher and the beautician,” he mocked as he dropped first Hudson’s and then Farley’s exams on their desks. “If you’re to be spared from ending up in those horridly alliterative professions,” he lectured, “you need to concentrate on the material, not waste your time chattering. Therefore, Ms Farley, I want you to move over and sit next to Mr Hobbs for the remainder of the semester.”

The girl blanched. “Uh, couldn’t _the cheerleader_ move back to her regular seat?” she protested. “I don’t mind sitting next to Taylor, and she’s the jock’s girl-”

Uh-oh, Justin reflected. Sydney was bound to be pissed off that the beautician-in-the-making had referred to her so derisively, making her sound like a pea-brained bimbo.

Her head whipping around, Syd glared at her classmate, causing her to grind to a halt.

Dixon didn’t glance at the pom-pom girl as he remarked, “Ms Thompson has made her choice, poor though it may be, so you might as well benefit from Mr Hobbs’ guidance.” When the girl didn’t move, the maths instructor ordered, “Now, if you please, Ms Farley.”

A glum look on her face, Farley gathered up her things and plodded over to sit next to Chris.

“Ms Chanders, I’m actually rather impressed,” Dixon said moments later as he returned her tests. “You’ve made quite a leap in comprehension.”

Daphne looked like she might faint, staring at the teacher in wide-eyed shock. Justin couldn’t blame her. Other than the bootlicking jock, the maths teacher rarely complimented anyone.

“It’s commendable that you asked your dad for help,” Dixon continued.

Huh? How’d the man reached that conclusion? He could tell Daph was wondering the same thing, her eyes opening even wider.

The instructor didn’t elaborate, so it remained a mystery. Maybe they’d be able to puzzle it out over lunch, the blond boy thought as Dixon turned toward him and slapped two exams down on the desk. “Imperceptible improvement, Taylor,” he jibed, “not that I expected any better from you.”

Justin sighed as the instructor moved on to the next student, spewing more insults as he handed the exams back to the remainder of the pupils. What had Dickhead docked him for this time? he wondered. The lad leafed through his tests, stunned when he discovered no red ink, only 100% in small print at the bottom of each one. Huh. An imperceptible improvement, indeed. That must have hurt, the blond thought, for Dixon to give him full points.

 

Brian watched his two friends get up off the hallway floor, Ted halfheartedly brushing off the coat he had used in a picnic blanket’s stead.

“You’re not bringing that dirty thing inside my loft,” he immediately complained, pointing at the offending article of clothing. “God knows what sort of dirt you picked up off the floor.”

Ted glanced at the cement floor - the company that repurposed the building into apartments hadn’t bothered to install better flooring on the top level - under his feet assessingly. “You mean like-” he paused, his brow furrowing as he looked back up at Brian.

The younger man smirked at his friend.

“Christ, that’s disgusting.” The appalled man shoved his overcoat at Brian. “While you’re having this dry-cleaned, I’ll borrow your Armani one.”

“You must be joking,” Brian demurred. “This rag” - he disdainfully held Ted’s wool coat away from his body to inspect it - “isn’t worth the fee the cleaners charge.”

Ted huffed, “It’s a perfectly respectable London Fog.”

“That you found on some kind of last chance, super sale rack,” Brian alleged.

He chuckled, knowing he’d hit the mark when Theodore flushed and didn’t say anything else.

“Wait a minute,” Cynthia interjected. “Regardless of whether Ted’s coat is an off-brand, it doesn’t need to be dry-cleaned. Just lend him your clothes brush to remove the smidgen of dirt, for Christ’s sake.”

“The substance that’s causing the problem isn’t a bit of dirt,” Ted elaborated. “Unfortunately, it appears that Brian and his _visitors_ don’t always make it inside before the main event.”

The blonde’s eyes widened in enlightenment. “Ew!” Shuddering, she turned to Brian. “You should have your cleaning lady scrub this area down, every time she’s here if need be.”

The Ukrainian girl _had_ regularly cleaned the area before the burglary. While his apartment was cordoned off, however, there’d been no need for any kind of cleaning. Then, soon after the police had released the loft, he’d been traipsing over the threshold and stopped short, staring at a nearly invisible streak on the wall near the door. A couple nights prior to the robbery, he and Justin had been returning from Babylon, driving each other wild with brief touches and dirty talk. By the time they reached Brian’s building, they’d been nearly frantic with need and were unwilling to take the time to unlock the door to the loft. Brian wasn’t sure he’d have been capable of inserting the key into the keyhole anyway - he’d been concentrating all his attention on a different hole. The two men had pawed at each other’s clothes, eager to expose just enough skin so that Brian could drive into that luscious bubble butt.

Now, looking at the faint smudge, which trailed down to the floor, Brian remembered how he’d ordered the Ukrainian girl to leave the landing alone, that it was fine as it was. She’d protested that it was getting really yucky, but he remained adamant. He’d been starting to miss the blond brat - or at least the constant fucking - and hadn’t wanted to eradicate the last trace of the boy.

Since he wasn’t about to explain _why_ the landing hadn’t been cleaned, he simply stretched a hand out toward the cardboard container of coffee drinks that Cynthia had retrieved from the floor. “Just give me my cup of Justin,” he demanded.

Both of his employees fell about, guffawing loudly. Shit. He had to get the blond back to the loft stat and relieve his blue balls. Then he’d no longer be prone to uttering such lesbianic nonsense. “Cup of joe!” he shouted, attempting to make himself heard over their boisterous laughter. “Oh, fuck you, you heathens!” he swore in his best Saint Joan impression.

The devilish duo just pushed their way past him into the apartment, giggling like school children. Brian glared disdainfully at the unstylish coat in his hands. When the hell did he become Ted’s personal laundromat?  

“Here’s your double cup of Justin,” Cynthia tittered, placing Brian’s Americano on the counter. “I’m afraid it’s not as _hot_ as usual, though.”

“Want to wager on how long it takes Bri to heat Justin up?” Ted chortled.

“Christ,” Brian grunted as his giggling employees conferred. He reluctantly draped Ted’s coat over a hanger - no way was he going to embarrass himself at the dry cleaner by having that _rag_ mixed in with his clothes. He’d rather pony up the money for a new coat for his skinflint friend than touch the thing ever again.

Growling, “I have no problem heating up my coffee or my men” - that sent his employees into a fresh spate of laughter - he stalked over to the counter, snatched the coffee drink, and continued on to the microwave. Uh-oh, Brian mused, coming to an abrupt halt as he stared at the countertop oven he’d purchased to replace his stolen one. He had yet to use the Wolf microwave, and there was no handy-dandy handle that he could pull to open it. He probably should have asked for a demonstration when it was delivered, but he hadn’t wanted to admit that he bought it simply because he liked the sleek design and because it was ‘the latest high-end microwave on the market’. Tentatively, he reached out and depressed a button that he hoped would release the door latch. Nothing happened.

“Seventy-five seconds,” he heard Theodore mutter, disappointment evident in his voice.

“I win!” Cynthia crowed before joining her boss in front of the microwave. “Need a hand with your _Americano_?” she inquired archly.

Brian glared at the giggling blonde woman.

“It’s this one,” she informed him, stretching out her hand toward the microwave in exaggerated slow motion and depressing the large square at the bottom of the control panel. The door immediately sprang open.

Theodore wheezed out a laugh as he looked over Cynthia’s shoulder. “Is that _opening_ big enough for you?” he deadpanned.

Brian snorted, rolling his eyes at that sally. “Wait,” he ordered as Cyn placed the coffee inside the microwave. “Mr Know-all can give us a demo.”

He expected that Ted would also flail about; instead, the accountant closed the door, quickly tapped a button on the right side of the control panel and then a different button. The microwave emitted a quiet hum as it began heating the coffee.

Wait. Which button had Theodore pressed before ‘start’? Brian wondered.

“Slo-mo,” Cynthia advised her colleague with a snicker.

“Gee, Bri, you must’ve had a really old model,” Ted commented, “if it didn’t have an ‘add minute’ option. Press it once,” he explained slowly, “and it reheats for one minute. Twice for two-”

“I get it,” Brian grouched, equally as offended to be treated like a dimwit as he was to learn that he’d apparently possessed an antiquated microwave. The insurance appraisers had probably laughed their arses off when they saw that item on his inventory of burgled goods.

“I take it plain old coffee wouldn’t do because you were craving a _blond Americano_?” Cynthia remarked cheekily.

The microwave pinged, which gave Brian an excuse to ignore the jesting. He pushed the large button - Christ, how could he have missed it before? - to open the door, almost whacking himself in the nose since he’d been leaning too close to the infernal device.

Naturally, another round of merriment ensued as Brian removed the Americano and took a cautious sip. “Did they forget the sugar?” he groused, twisting his lips in disgust at the overly bitter taste.

“Well,” Cyn drawled, “I watched while the barista put in four packets, but he may have thought I was joking when I said it should be six, preferably seven.”

“Har de har,” Brian scoffed as he removed the lid and spooned more sugar into the cup. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and brew another pot?”

“Sure,” the blonde responded agreeably, far too agreeably the adman suspected. He was proven correct moments later, after Cynthia removed the still damp carafe - Brian hadn’t rinsed it after dumping the gritty coffee, so it was evident that he’d tried to do _something_ with the Braun dragon - filled the tank to the ‘max’ mark, inserted a filter, and grabbed the tin of coffee from the cupboard. “Hmm,” she queried, blinking guilelessly, “how many scoops is it that I need?”

Brian manfully resisted the urge to growl, ‘Figure it out. That’s what I pay you for.’ knowing that if he said that, he’d be drinking sludge until he apologised. Instead, he strode over to his answering machine to check for messages.

“Why don’t I show you?” he heard Ted offer flippantly.

“Oh, goody. I’ll write it down in case, you know, I forget again.” Cynthia enthused.

“Whatever the fuck,” Brian grumbled to himself. At least he’d have the instructions and could blame his recalcitrant employees if it didn’t turn out right.

His Americano all too quickly downed - that was the problem with an espresso drink; there was never enough of it - the adman glared at the steady red light on his answer phone. Repeatedly jabbing the ‘caller ID’ button, he scrolled through all the calls for the last three days. No new messages since Friday, although there were numerous hang-ups from Mikey’s number over the weekend. Brian shrugged. Couldn’t have been very important - his childhood friend had neither jammed his voicemail with inane chatter, nor had he pulled Brian aside during yesterday’s Sunday dinner.

Nothing from Hanson, which was the only call that mattered at the moment. “Theodore!” he bellowed, stomping back to the kitchen,“There’s been no word from that toadying estate agent. The bid must’ve been too fucking low.”

“Relax, Bri,” Ted attempted to appease the younger man. “You just submitted the bid on Friday. I doubt the Hamster will have to spin his wheels all that vigorously to convince the owners to accept the bid.”

The adman didn’t feel all that soothed. Fucking Theodore and his bright ideas, he thought.

“C’mon, boss. Lighten up,” Cynthia encouraged, removing the freshly brewed carafe of coffee from the hotplate, pouring some into his AdStud mug, and pushing it toward him.

Brian narrowed his eyes as he looked down at the steaming liquid. How come the java percolated so quickly when the blonde made it? he wondered.

As he stirred _a bit_ of sugar into the cup, Cynthia tried to alert him, “Um, I already-”

“Ssh,” Theodore hushed her. “He needs all the sweetening he can get.”

The younger man took a sip and sighed, “Ah.” It was just right. _If_ Cynthia had put any sugar in the cup before handing it to him - which he doubted - the amount had obviously been negligible.

“You were saying Theodore?” he inquired more mildly, angling his head toward his CFO.

“One or more of the owners probably wasn’t around over the weekend.” Ted posited. “Hanson’s probably talking with them right now and will call any minute.”

Right at that moment the landline rang, and Brian practically galloped over to the phone.

“Wait!” Ted shouted, panting as he slammed his hand down on top of Brian’s. “If it’s the Hamster, your minion - me, remember? - needs to accept the call.”

Christ, he hadn’t even checked to see who was calling, the advertising exec realised. What had happened to his legendary fucking restraint? Flushing a deep red, he withdrew his hand from the phone and gestured for Ted to pick up.

“Schmidt,” Theodore said in an indifferent voice as he lifted the receiver to his ear.  “Who?” he asked a couple beats later. “Oh, right, Hampson,” he acknowledged, sounding bored.

Fuck, it _was_ the realtor. Brian impatiently paced to and fro, noting from the corner of his eye that Cynthia was no longer calm, the way she was white-knuckling the counter betraying her excitement.

Ted heaved a put-upon sigh. “I was just advising my boss to can the bid, Hampson. This has proven to be a monumental waste of time.”

Brian shot a ‘what the fuck’ look at the accountant. He was going to queer the deal, dammit.

An indecipherable, high-pitched squawking emerged from the phone as Theodore held it away from his ear, a pained look on his face. Then, however, as Hanson’s voice lowered to a more normal volume - meaning Brian couldn’t hear anything at all - a shark-like grin stole over Ted’s face.

That meant everything was copacetic, right? Brian couldn’t stop worrying, however. With good reason, he decided when Ted stated, “I don’t know,” reluctance weighing down his words.

Goddammit. Brian was going to strangle his CFO. Why the fuck had he agreed to let the schmuck take the lead on these critical negotiations? He simply wasn’t in his usual good form, too distracted by the way Justin kept rebuffing him to concentrate properly.

Theodore didn’t say anything for ages - at least half a minute - before inquiring, “When will you fax over the contract with the revised amount?”

Shit, Brian thought, shoulders slumping. It looked like he’d had to increase his offer. Even if he was paying a few thousand more, he reminded himself, he was still getting the bathhouse for a song.

Ted wound up the conversation with, “Fax the revision now, Hampson. I’ll ask Mr Kinney to sign it as soon as he’s available and will fax it back to you.”

Brian had to give Ted credit for playing the part of the loyal, beleaguered employee to the hilt. Too bad it hadn’t worked out to obtain the rock-bottom price. “Well?” he demanded as soon as the older man had hung up the phone. “How much did I have to up the bid?”

The older man grinned smugly at him. “Twenty-five hundred,” he said.

“Why the fuck are you grinning like a loon?” Brian chastised. “Granted, that’s not a terrible increase-”

Theodore’s smile grew until it covered almost his entire face. “Twenty-five hundred _less_ , Bri,” he emphasised as the fax machine began to spit out paper.

“Less?” Cynthia and Brian screeched simultaneously, her voice somewhat drowning out the adman’s.

Thank fuck for his secretary’s shriller tone, Brian thought. The news Ted had imparted was incredibly good, but it was still no excuse to sound like a lesbian.

“Yep.” Ted continued gloating as he carefully removed the contract from the fax machine. “I was pretty sure...”

“Pretty sure?” Brian squeaked. He reddened and coughed, pretending he hadn’t spoken when Theodore turned laughing eyes on him.

“...that there was still a bit of wiggle room,” the accountant continued smoothly. “Sure enough, as soon as I intimated you were no longer interested, he dropped the asking price by a thou.”

“But you said twenty-five hundred,” Cynthia interjected in puzzlement.

“All I had to do was wait, and he dropped it by five hundred more and then by an additional thou,” Ted elaborated. “I could tell he wouldn’t go any lower when he was silent for a whole five seconds.”

“Criminy,” the blonde woman whistled admiringly. “You’re a master negotiator, Theodore.”

“Don’t go giving him a swelled head,” Brian grumped. “The twat will be thinking he deserves a raise - after nearly giving me a heart attack.”

“I can tell I’ve risen in your estimation,” Ted chuckled, “since the only other person I’ve heard you fondly call a ‘twat’ is Justin.”

“I don’t think he wants to get into your pants, though,” Cynthia observed drily as she retrieved her mobile and walked toward the back of the loft whilst dialing a number.

“Fuck, no.” Brian disclaimed the idea. One twat was more than enough. Thank fuck he hadn’t said that out loud, he ruminated; talk about sounding like a muncher _and_ a complete idiot.

The older man nodded vehemently, muttering, “There’s only room for Ben in there.” He then stumbled to a halt, clearly mortified by his clumsy turn of phrase.

Brian was no longer listening, however, a vision of Justin gyrating to the music at Babylon in his tighty-whities having sprung into his mind, making him shift uncomfortably. How the lad managed to make those hideous briefs look so delectable, he still hadn’t figured out.

Moments later, Cynthia snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“Huh?” the befuddled stud asked, reluctant to be broken out of his daydream.

“Snap out of it,” his blonde secretary huffed, not bothering to hide her amusement. “I just spoke with DC. He says his crew can start working on the bathhouse tomorrow.”

“Good,” Brian grunted, shaking his head in an attempt to eradicate the lingering vision of the blond boy dancing in his undies. Fucking twat.

“DC’ll need a key to properly examine the bathhouse’s _inches_.” Cynthia tried again to prod him out of his Justin-induced fog.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian waved her off cavalierly, still stuck on the _blond’s_ inches, which he hadn’t been able to examine in far too long.

Ted chuckled. “Once you’ve signed the purchase agreement, Bri, I can coordinate with Hanson to obtain the key,” he suggested, “and deliver it to DC.”

“Yeah, okay,” the adman agreed. Fucking Ted, he thought for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. Unlike Brian, he wasn’t suffering from blue balls. Resolutely shoving the blond brat out of his mind, he directed, “Let’s give the contract a thorough review before I go to the bank this afternoon.”

“ _Finally!_ ” Cynthia exclaimed, playfully jabbing Brian with her elbow as they moved over to the kitchen table. “That boy’s measurements must really be something to distract you like that, boss.”

 

Despite the second snowstorm of the season descending on Pittsburgh and making a mess of the streets, Justin was in a good mood later that afternoon. Incredibly enough, he’d not only caught his regular bus from St James, he also made the transfer to the second bus with a delay of merely a few minutes. He should even be just on time shift at the diner, the lad thought happily. In an effort to avoid the slipperiest patches in the middle of the icy sidewalk, he hugged the buildings as he trotted along.

The bells from Our Lady of Fatima church began tolling four o’clock, mingling with the tinnier jangle of the bells above the door to the diner, as Justin pushed it open. There were only a few patrons scattered around the eatery - most of them seated well away from the entrance - the teenager observed as he hurriedly pushed the door to behind himself, shutting out the frigid air.

“Hey up, Deb,” he called out to the waitress, who was standing behind the counter, her back to him.

The redhead was so busy spouting a stream of invective at the Bunn commercial coffee maker that she didn’t notice his arrival. “Fucking hunk of junk,” Debbie grumped, giving the machine a solid ‘thwack’ with the flat of one hand.

The appliance rumbled in warning before spitting a dark, viscous liquid onto the empty hotplate and the redhead’s uniform. The indicator light blinked for a moment and then went out.

“Shit,” Deb cursed, glaring at the offending machine while brushing ineffectually at her button-bedecked vest.

“Jaysus,” the burly man seated on a green stool across from Deb groaned, “that leaves me in a bit of a pickle.”

Something about the carrot-topped bloke struck a familiar chord with Justin, although he couldn’t recall ever seeing him before. Surely he’d remember that distinct shade of orangey-red hair? That lilting Irish accent? He frowned in puzzlement, unable to figure where he might have encountered the man - other than Liberty Avenue, which didn’t exactly narrow it down.

“Sorry,” Debbie apologised, giving the coffee maker the evil eye. “I think it’s dispensed its last cup of jizz.”

The man chuckled, clearly enjoying Deb’s ribald turn of phrase. “Dinna fash yourself, lass. I’ll just have to settle for getting my petrol at Starbucks. Their overpriced, under-caffeinated java won’t provide nearly the jolt that comes from diner coffee, but I’ll make do. At least I don’t have to start measuring inches for Mr Control Freak until tomorrow.”

The blond teen smirked as he speculated about who the guy was referring to. It sounded like the perfect way to describe Brian.

“I’ll have my son bring a Mr Coffee or something from the Big Q to tide us over until we can get a proper replacement,” Debbie informed the customer. “We’re stuck with tea until then, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m all for a cuppa... or ten,” the carrot-top chuckled. “Just not when I’m half dead on my feet.” The fellow rose from the stool and stretched, muscles rippling and popping.

Justin eyed the mountain of a man admiringly. He wasn’t normally into giants - the height differential between him and Brian was bad enough - but this guy exuded a definite sex appeal. His admiration soon switched to the man’s winter-appropriate outfit, however - a warm flannel shirt, heavy-duty jeans, and hobnail boots - which the teenager immediately coveted. He identified the dungarees as Carhartt, which were nearly impossible to tear. Shortly after Brian had evicted him from the loft, he almost splurged on a pair at Sears; they weren’t all that expensive, but they’d still been out of his price range, so the lad forced himself to turn aside. He’d never make a start on repaying his ex, he’d decided, if he indulged himself like that.

The bloke - a construction worker, perhaps? - picked up a fleece-lined coat from a neighbouring stool and slipped it on. Now Justin couldn’t decide what he wanted more - the boots, the jeans, or the coat - he wouldn’t feel the cold nearly as much if he had those items.

“Stop by again,” Deb urged the man, winking at him flirtatiously.

Although it was pretty fucking weird to be salivating over the same guy as his surrogate mum, the absurdity of it made the teenager giggle. He doubted Debbie had any designs on the Irishman’s apparel, however; she would be more likely to emulate Emmett’s flamboyant style.

The stranger turned around to look him over. “Hmm,” he mused, his green eyes glinting wickedly, “you’re a bit of a shrimp, but that’s an impressive bubble butt you’re sporting, lad.”

Justin crimsoned as the tables were turned on him. He hadn’t meant to get caught ogling, and he could hardly confess that he wanted the clothes even more than the man.

“Sunshine!” Deb belatedly noticed him. She turned toward the big guy, boasting, “Our Sunshine has the most magnificent arse on Liberty Avenue.”

“Is that so?” The man waggled his eyebrows at Justin as he moved toward the door. “Guess I’ll have to stop by again to check it out. I’ll be a frequent visitor anyroad, since I’m about to start on a project in the hood.”

The blond teen suspected he’d turned bright pink from his toes to his hairline, a flush traveling up his body. At least not much beyond his head and his neck could be seen beneath his clothes, he thought.

“Cheerio,” the bloke called in farewell, breezing out of the diner. He stopped briefly, exchanging a friendly hello with a leather-clad bear before striding away down the sidewalk.

Justin’s brow furrowed, something about the black leather jogging his mind. “Fuck,” he sighed in frustration a moment later, the memory eluding him. “Have you ever seen that guy before?” he asked Debbie, hoping she could resolve the nagging sensation that he’d met the man before.

“Nope.” The redhead shook her head. “There’s no way I’d forget a fine specimen of manhood like that one.”

“He’s gay!” Justin declared abruptly. “And you already have a boyfriend,” he added, feeling oddly defensive on Carl’s behalf. “Er, almost. Right?”

Debbie let out an explosive laugh. “So what if he’s gay? That doesn’t make him less of a dish.”

The teenager floundered about for a way to explain his reaction. “Well, no, but, should you be looking-”

“At other men?” Deb finished for him when he stuttered to a halt.

“Uh, maybe?” Justin replied uncertainly, wishing he’d never said anything. He was beginning to feel like a total moron.

“Honey,” his surrogate mum chuckled, “I’d have to be dead not to admire a good-looking bloke. And let’s face it, Carl’s no more John Fucking Kennedy than I am Marilyn Monroe.”

Justin had to giggle at Debbie’s reinterpretation of JFK’s middle initial.

“Regardless, there’s no harm in either of us taking a gander at another gal or guy.” She eyed him knowingly. “Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn’t have drooled over that bloke even if Brian was right next to you?”

The teenager squirmed, caught out in applying a ridiculous double standard. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-”

Deb took pity on him. “I know, Sunshine,” she interrupted, her voice fond. “Now why don’t you go change out of your uniform - it looks rather sodden - while I get the Finn to heat up water for a cuppa? There’s next to no customers, so we can have ourselves a proper chinwag over some tea.”

Thank fuck she hadn’t taken offence, he thought. “Sure,” he agreed, beaming at the motherly woman before hurrying into the break room. At least his jacket, threadbare as it was, had kept his school blazer from getting soaked through, he reflected, as he slipped it off and hung it on a hanger. He toed off his dress shoes, quickly exchanging his white dress shirt and slacks for a t-shirt and jeans. He groaned when he realised he didn’t have a pair of sport socks to change into - he made a mental note to resupply his cubby - and deliberated about whether or not to leave on the damp black socks that were part of his uniform. Deciding they were too wet to be comfortable, he pulled them off and slid his feet into his trainers. “Fuck,” he muttered as he looked down and saw the growing hole where his big toe pressed against the edge of his left sneaker. It looked like a replacement pair of trainers had just moved to the top of his shopping list. Justin sighed as he grabbed his apron and slipped it over his head. How was he ever going to cobble together enough money for the necessities _and_ make a dent in paying back Brian for his burgled possessions?

His countenance brightened, however, when he joined Debbie at the booth and discovered not only a pot of tea but also a plateful of sandwiches.

“Dig in,” the redhead urged, pushing the sarnies toward him as he slid onto the banquette, placing his sketchbook to one side.

An appreciative rumble emanated from the lad’s midsection as he reached out a hand, but then he hesitated, recalling Deb was going to task the Finn with heating up the water for their tea. “Erm, are they safe?” he inquired, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchen.

“No worries,” the redhead cackled, her curls bouncing. “It’s salmon, so it’s meant to taste like fish.”

Reassured, Justin raised a sandwich to his mouth and took a healthy bite. “Mmm,” he mumbled after swallowing, “the bloke does have a way with fish.”

“Yeah,” Debbie retorted, laughing some more, “we’d have one of those haute cuisine chefs on our hands if he could, say, prepare beef - and not have it taste like cod.”

The blond teen quickly polished off the first sarnie and was reaching for a second when he remembered his sketchbook. “Look inside the cover,” he suggested, nudging it toward his surrogate mum.

“You want to show me your etchings?” Debbie teased.

Justin shook his head, smiling around his mouthful of sourdough and salmon.

“You want me to look at these?” Deb asked when she found the folded pieces of paper Justin had placed inside the sketchpad.

The boy nodded.

After unfolding the sheets of paper, the woman frowned in puzzlement. “Um, Sunshine, if you want me to help you with maths, you’re shit outta luck,” she snorted. “I barely made it through algebra - and that was a long time ago.”

Quickly polishing off another bite, Justin instructed, “Take a look at the last page of each of those exams.”

Debbie flipped to the last page of one test and then the other, squinting at each one.

The blond lad chuckled. He couldn’t blame her for having a hard time making out his scores - Dixon couldn’t have written them much smaller or fainter.

His surrogate mother’s jaw dropped as she sussed it out. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You mean to tell me that homophobic prick of a maths teacher gave you a perfect score on _two_ different tests?” Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline as she gaped at Justin in astonishment.

“Yep.” Justin confirmed, popping the ‘P’ in satisfaction. “Dickhead barely even made a snide comment, just something about how my improvement was ‘imperceptible’. That’s true enough,” the lad boasted, “considering he’d previously graded me down for picayune reasons that weren’t actually errors.”

“Oh, Sunshine, I’m so proud of you!” Debbie yelled, waving his tests in the air as she stood up and moved around to his side of the table. She bodily dragged him over to the edge of the bench, pressing his face against her substantial bosom and making it difficult for him to breathe.

“Justin, is that you?” he thought he heard someone ask from a distance.

He could only just hear the voice, given the way he was pressed up against Deb’s tits. He loved his surrogate mum dearly, but why was she always trying to suffocate him? he wondered.

“Oh, my, aren’t you a cutie pie,” Debbie fluted, finally releasing Justin from the bear hug.

The blond teen stared dumbly at the newcomer. What the fuck was Eric doing here?

The other boy sidled away, trying to evade Debbie’s outstretched fingers. If he hadn’t been busy heaving in air, Justin could have told him resistance was futile. He did huff out a laugh when Deb’s fingers made contact with one of Eric’s cheeks, giving it a hearty pinch. It made him feel slightly less embarrassed about Eric watching him be manhandled by Debbie.

“I’m Debbie,” the waitress introduced herself before quizzing the young man. “Now tell me who you are and how you know my Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” Eric glanced briefly at Justin before returning his gaze to the redhead.

Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck, ran through Justin’s mind. As he watched the trainwreck happen, he recalled telling the other boy that he could find him at the Liberty Diner when he was ready to go all the way.

“What other nickname could Justin have?” Debbie chuckled. “Just look at that blond hair and beaming smile.”

“Uh, okay,” Eric agreed with another hasty glance at Justin.

The redhead redirected Eric’s attention, reminding him a trifle impatiently, “Introduce yourself and tell me how you know Sunshine.”

Noooo, Justin protested silently as Eric looked at Debbie in a sort of appalled fascination - like a cobra might eye a mongoose, not knowing what was about to happen to it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to telepathically convey that Eric shouldn’t answer the question.

“Um, I’m Eric, and we met at Babylon,” the older teen revealed, sweating slightly under Deb’s laser-like gaze.

Debbie’s gaze grew more avid. “Would that by chance have been on Saturday night?” she delved for more information.

“Uh, yeah?” the boy confirmed uncertainly, beginning to sweat under the continuing inquisition.

“So you’re Mr Saturday Night.” Debbie looked the boy up and down, tossing a “Not bad, Sunshine” over her shoulder before chiding, “Why didn’t you have Justin give us a jingle to let us know he’d be out all night?”

Justin was so mortified by this point that he wished he could sink through the floor. “Deb,” he tried to interject, “that wasn’t Eric’s fault. I-”

Debbie ignored him. “That would have been common courtesy,” she ranted. “I was half frantic with worry come Sunday morning, when the lad finally stumbled through the door.”

“Sorry,” Eric squeaked. “I didn’t know he had a curfew. I mean, he’s in college, right?”

The blond wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed to have Eric learn he was still in high school. Maybe it was just because he’d never intended to share the details of his life with a one-night stand.

“He doesn’t have a curfew,” Debbie allowed, “even if he is still in high school.”

At hearing that titbit, Eric cast another glance at Justin, plainly flabbergasted.

“We do want to know he’s safe, though.” Debbie steamrolled on, shaking a finger at Eric. “Like I told Sunshine yesterday, you should stay over at our house the next time.”

Well wasn’t that just perfect, Justin groaned to himself. Now the other teenager was going to expect an invitation.

Indeed, a smile spread across Eric’s face, and he shrugged. “Sure. I’d be happy to hang out with Justin wherever it works out best for him.”

“You’re a good lad.” Debbie beamed at Eric, patting the cheek she’d previously pinched, obviously convinced she’d made her point. “You can join us for our afternoon tea,” she decided, bustling over to the counter to grab more tableware.

“Is that your mum?” Eric whispered as he slid in next to Justin. “She’s… something else.”

Deb might have just embarrassed the heck out of him, the blond boy reflected, but she’d also made it clear - yet again - how much she cared about him. “Yes,” he said simply, “she is.” responding to both the question and the statement.

“Then I’d say you’re lucky,” Eric asserted, smiling at him.

He immediately rose in Justin’s estimation; not everyone was as readily accepting of Debbie. Heck, Justin flushed, remembering how he’d referred to her as a ‘freak’ when Michael introduced him to his mum. It hadn’t taken long, though, before he recognised the warm heart under the brash exterior.

“Here,” the warm-hearted woman declared, plunking dishes and another plate of sandwiches on the table, along with one loaded with lemon bars. “You young ’uns are all too skinny; you need to put some meat on your bones.”

Eric appeared to be nonplussed by the amount of food for a moment, but then he grinned hugely, grabbing hold of one of the salmon butties and chomping down. “Ta,” he thanked Debbie, “that really hits the spot. It’s been ages since I had lunch.”

“You sound just like Sunshine,” Debbie chuckled. “I swear the lad can’t go two hours without his stomach growling to be filled.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Eric asked, fingering the calculus tests that were still on the table, picking them up to examine them more closely. “Holy shit,” he breathed out after leafing through the pages. “Are you some kind of wunderkind, Justin? I barely scraped through my calculus class back in high school. Some of these problems are pretty hairy,” he added, setting the exams back on the table. “Even now, it’d probably take me forever to solve them.”

“Sunshine could tutor you,” Deb immediately offered on Justin’s behalf. “He’s got a regular tutoring session going on here on Wednesday nights.”

The blond teenager gave Eric a weak grin. Cripes, he hoped the other boy wouldn’t jump on that idea. All he needed was another tutee… He blanched as he imagined how Daphne and Sydney would razz him unmercifully.

Fortunately, Eric declined. “Other than meeting the GE requirement at CMU, I’m glad to be done with maths,” he emphasised, pretending to wipe sweat off his forehead. “That’s why I changed my mind about majoring in architecture; I’d have to take _more_ calculus. Blech.”

“You can have loads of fun,” Justin argued. “You just need to understand how to tackle the equations.”

“No shit.” Eric grumped. “It’s that _understanding_ I had difficulty with.”

“So did my best friend,” Justin disclosed, “although it was more a matter of Daph not applying herself. She was too busy chasing after boys early in the semester.”

“Something you’d know nothing about,” Debbie inserted drily.

Justin shrugged. “I can multitask.”

“Uh-huh,” the redhead laughed. “I’m betting it’s more that a certain someone provided _incentives_ for you to study, but whatever guy Daphne was panting after didn’t do that. I remember you telling me that you and your bestie were always neck and neck for the top score when you started your senior year.”

“Hmm,” Justin shifted a little, his face warming as he recalled some of the ‘incentives’ Brian had dangled in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Eric was frowning, as if he was upset about something. Whatever, he thought, shrugging a little. The kid was nice and quite attractive, but the night they’d spent together was a one-off. No repeats.

“Er,” the distracted teen stuttered, “Daph’s easy.” Whoops, he thought when Debbie burst out laughing. “Um, I mean, she’ll settle for food - you know, lemon bars, cookies, greasy diner food, your home-cooked meals.”

“Are those doing the _trick_?” Debbie inquired, arching an eyebrow at the teen.

The blond chose to ignore the innuendo. “Our study sessions have made a huge difference. She got a B and a B+ on those same two tests,” he divulged, his pride in his friend written across his features.

“Oh, that’s grand!” Debbie smiled at Justin.

“The cheerleader I’m tutoring improved a lot too. Not as much as-”

“Cheerleader?” Debbie interrupted, flummoxed. “What cheerleader?”

“Uh, this blonde girl that’s in calculus and physics with me and Daph,” Justin clarified. Fuck, he’d have to be careful not to reveal that she was Hobbs’ girlfriend; Deb would shit a brick over him helping Syd if she found that out. “I’m still wary of her - she was a total bitch after I came out - but she’s been friendlier of late, and it turns out there’s a brain beneath that blonde hair.”

He paused, laughing ruefully as he tugged on a blond strand of his own. He really needed a haircut he mused again, or he’d soon have a ponytail that he could flip over his shoulder, à la Sydney.

“Are you sure she’s not just using you?” Debbie suggested gently. “You shouldn’t let her take advantage of you, Sunshine.”

“I’m not,” the blond denied. “It’s really no hardship - I tutor Daph anyway, so it’s no bother if Sydney tags along. She’s got a wicked sense of humour and, boy, does she ever give Dixon fits. She’s not the stereotypical blonde bimbo I took her for.”

“Hey!” Eric objected. “My younger sister’s a blonde, a pom-pom girl, and she’s wicked smart.”

“Not to mention,” Deb interjected, “that you’re a blond, Sunshine. And you used to play soccer, right?”

Justin nodded, wondering where she was going with this. He had a suspicion that a trap was about to snap shut on him.

“So you could have been stereotyped as a dumb jock, right?”

The blond teen shot her an offended look. “No way,” he protested. “I’ve always been at the top of the class.”

“Maybe the other students thought you were being given a free pass by the teachers,” the redhead posited. “Did you ever look at it that way, Sunshine?”

Justin scowled, mulling it over before reluctantly admitting, “Uh, no. I should have done, though.”

“Just think twice before you make sweeping assumptions about anyone,” Debbie advised. “You never know,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “who might have been a cheerleader.”

Oh, shit. “You were a pom-pom girl?” Justin gasped.

“Yep. Biggest mouth and tits in my junior class.” Debbie announced, preening a little.

He could believe that, Justin thought, stifling a nervous giggle.

“I had to give it up when I found out I was pregnant,” the redhead stated sadly. “I found out right quick who my friends really were, and it sure as heck wasn’t my fellow cheerleaders, who called me out for being a whore and cast all sorts of other nasty aspersions. So, yeah, most of them _do_ fit the cliché of being snobby, self-righteous, little shits, but just remember that there’s always an exception.”

“Wow,” Eric breathed out in awe, “you’re one tough broad, ma’am.”

That about summed it up, Justin thought, wishing he’d been the one to say that.

“Fuck, don’t you dare _ma’am_ me,” Debbie cackled, even as she flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “I’m not that ancient.” She hefted herself up from the seat, declaring, “I’ll leave you boys to chat. I need to make a phone call.”

The teenagers sat in silence for a few moments, nibbling at the sandwiches and shooting uneasy looks at each other.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” Eric finally spoke up. “You don’t seem all that happy to see me.”

“Um, I really didn’t expect to see you again,” Justin confessed.

“Why not?” Eric cocked his head at the blond. “Even if you hadn’t told me you work here, I could have found you at Babylon.”

“Um-” Justin floundered, unsure what to say. He could always blurt out that it was just supposed to be a fuck, but that would undoubtedly hurt the other boy’s feelings. Christ this was awkward, he thought, suddenly having an inkling of how Brian must have felt when Justin confronted him after they’d hooked up.

“Was it just supposed to be the one time?” Eric inquired in a small voice, as if he was on the verge of crying. “Was that why you thought you wouldn’t see me again?”

“That’s what usually happens when you pick someone up at a club,” Justin answered. Oh, crap, he mused, panicking as a tear trembled on Eric’s eyelashes before it trailed down his cheek.

“I guess I was stupid,” the older boy acknowledged, his voice trembling. “I just- I thought we’d made a connection. I really like you, you know?”

The sense of déjà vu grew stronger. Change the location to the street outside the loft, he reflected, and this could be him and Brian. He didn’t want to brush Eric off the same way Brian had done with him, though; that was a shitty way to treat anyone. “You’re a nice guy-”

“Spare me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech,” Eric muttered, beginning to rise from the booth. “I can take a hint.”

He couldn’t let Eric leave like this, he decided, placing his hand atop the other teenager’s to stay him. Justin was a bit torn since he’d really like to have sex with him again - once with a real person instead of _BOB_ was hardly enough. He’d mulled things over since the episode with Eric, however, coming to the realisation that he couldn’t get involved with the other boy because, despite everything, he still hadn’t given up on Brian. It wouldn’t be fair to Eric to lead him on. “You _are_ a nice guy,” he reiterated. “And I’d like to get to know you better, as long as you’re willing to just be friends.”

Eric sat back down. “Friends with benefits, maybe?” he asked hesitantly. “I, uh, really liked being with you, Justin.”

“You don’t know how hard it is to say no.” Justin huffed out a wry half-laugh. “But…”

“There’s someone else?” Eric guessed.

“Yeah.” Justin shrugged, not about to try and explain the fucked-up situation between him and Brian.

The other boy’s eyes narrowed as he studied Justin. “He’s a fool if doesn’t see how amazing you are,” he asserted.

The blond lad shook his head, attempting to eradicate the images of him importuning Brian, before he gave up, climbing back into the car and driving home on that long ago night. He thought he’d known Brian back then, but he really hadn’t - just like Eric didn’t know him now.

A few more customers trickled into the diner, giving Justin an excuse to end the uncomfortable conversation. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he informed Eric.

“We can get together again, though, right?” Eric asked.

“Okay,” Justin agreed, hoping that it wouldn’t be so awkward the next time. “My schedule really is crazy, though-”

The other boy eyed him warily, interjecting, “Just be honest if you don’t want to see me again.”

“My schedule really _is_ crazy,” Justin stressed. “Just ask my mum if you need corroboration.”

“Soz,” Eric mumbled, looking abashed.

“I just want you to understand that I don’t have much free time,” Justin explained. “You can always drop by the diner - I’m here most afternoons. It’s usually hopping, though, so I may not be able to spend much time with you. I will take a break and have a chat if I can manage it.”

“It’s not like I can get away every day either,” Eric acknowledged, smiling at him.

Justin slid out of the booth after Eric and began clearing off the table. He recollected Eric mentioning how he’d been scared to approach another boy before Justin - even for something as simple as a kiss - so he inquired, “Have you checked out the GLBT club at Carnegie Mellon?”

“Uh, no,” came Eric’s somewhat sheepish reply.

“I’d kill for some kind of support group at St James,” Justin commented, the wistful note in his voice unfeigned. “There have to be other queer pupils - the student body isn’t _that_ small - but I’m the only one who’s out. The others are too intimidated by all the bullying - to which the administration turns a blind eye. They’re so homophobic and holier-than-thou that they won’t even allow a gay-straight alliance to be established.”

“Bastards,” Eric sneered.

“Yeah. It’s not a pleasant place to be gay.” Justin vastly understated the situation. “You’re lucky to be at university, where you’ve got people to talk to. I kinda know one of the profs who teaches at CMU. He’s openly gay, and I bet he’s involved with the GLBT club in some way.”

“What’s his name?” Eric asked. “Maybe I could look him up.”

Geesh, he should sometimes think before he opened his mouth, Justin mused. “Uh, I should probably check with him first to make sure he’d be okay with that.” At Eric’s disappointed look, he added, “He eats here sometimes; I’ll ask him the next time I see him.”

“Cool. Um, I’d better get going,” Eric stated, scuffing one shoe against the floor. “The buses are moving really fucking slowly in this snow.”

“Don’t I know it,” Justin agreed. “It’s a royal pain in the arse.”

Instead of saying goodbye and heading out the door, Eric just shuffled from one foot to the other. What was he waiting for? Justin wondered irritably, his hands full of dishes that he wanted to take to the kitchen.

“Could- could I give you a kiss goodbye?” Eric expelled the question in such a rush that it sounded like one long word.

Surprised, Justin merely stared at the older boy for a moment. He wasn’t really in the habit of exchanging kisses with anyone other than Brian and, occasionally, Em, although those weren’t usually lingering ones - unless, of course, the queen was intentionally needling Brian. He couldn’t think of a reason to refuse though - it was a common way for gays to say hello or goodbye.

“Sure,” he said, setting down the dishes, putting his hands on Eric’s shoulders, and leaning in to press an affectionate kiss against his lips. He could tell the older boy wanted more - his tongue ventured out briefly - but Justin kept his lips closed and the kiss light and friendly. After a few seconds he stepped back, smiled at Eric, and urged, “You’d better go catch that bus so I can get to work.

“Okay,” Eric assented, giving him a goofy smile before he _finally_ headed out the door.

Air whooshed from Justin’s lungs as he carried the dishes into the kitchen. He felt completely drained but was proud of the way he’d handled things with Eric. The blond was pretty sure he’d like having the other boy for a friend - once he got over over his fixation on Justin.

 

“Fuck,” Brian cursed, windmilling his arms in an effort to keep his balance as he skidded along the treacherous, snow-bedecked sidewalk toward PNC Bank. His briefcase arced outward, almost knocking over the only other pedestrian within three metres of him. Both vehicular and foot traffic were sparse, most Pittsburghers having the sense to stay off the streets as the heavy snow descended. The weather forecast he’d listened to on the radio as he drove from the loft predicted that the city would become socked in overnight, and the newscaster had reported that public schools as well as many county offices and businesses would be closed the next day.

“Fucking idiot,” grumbled the adman, although he wasn’t sure if he was addressing himself or the other person, who glared at him before nimbly moving away, his feet encased in practical snow boots. Christ, maybe he should have taken the cackling hyenas’ advice, Brian thought, still put out at the way they’d laughed at him over his insistence that he had to wear his Prada boots with his Armani suit. Whilst tugging on the fashionable but tractionless boots, Brian had patiently explained that he had to look the part of a successful businessman - his Timberland boots would have been undignified, making him appear to be a ski bum, for fuck’s sake.

Ted had muttered something caustic about an Armani-clad ski bunny, while Cynthia had hooted about landing on his keister being far less dignified than wearing so-called, off-brand boots. They _might_ just be right, Brian was now willing to concede, after nearly falling for the third time. Of course, if fucking Theodore hadn’t nicked his parking karma, he wouldn’t have had to park three fucking blocks away from the bank, and his arse wouldn’t be in danger of meeting the cement.

Taking baby steps instead of his usual confident strides, Brian inched his way towards the bank, finally reaching the financial institution a few minutes later, sans any mishap more serious than nearly beheading that moron of a pedestrian with his briefcase. Once inside, he ignored the teller windows to his right and headed directly toward the sectioned-off cubicles on his left. “Mr Kinney,” a nattily dressed, older woman greeted him, stepping out of an office tucked into the corner next to the partitioned area. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Brian is fine,” the advertising exec replied, shaking her hand. “Thanks for fitting me in on such short notice.” As a junior loan officer, she’d been the one to assist him with the mortgage for his loft, and he’d always appreciated her professionalism. During the intervening years, she’d worked her way up the ladder to financial manager and had acquired an office with windows overlooking Liberty Avenue.

“That’s what we’re here for,” she responded smoothly. “I’ve drawn up a mortgage agreement regarding the property you mentioned and will be happy to go over it with you.”

“I have the signed purchase agreement for the property as well as itemised spreadsheets with estimates for repaying the loan.” Brian informed her, snicking his briefcase open, removing the paperwork, and handing it to her.

“My goodness,” the financial manager observed after perusing the spreadsheets, “you’ve done most of my work for me, Brian. I don’t think I’ve ever had a customer approach me with such a well-designed plan. We won’t need half the time I allotted for this meeting.”

Huh. It looked like Theodore was proving his worth, Brian reflected as he watched the woman key numbers into her computer.

Fewer than twenty minutes later, Brian had carefully reviewed the contract, the numbers exactly matching the figures in the spreadsheets Ted had prepared, and signed the mortgage paperwork, one of the loan officer’s colleagues witnessing and notarising the documents. Now the remodel could begin, he thought in satisfaction as he said farewell to the manager.

“Oh, Brian,” she called out as he went to exit her office.

“Yes?” he asked, turning his head to look back at the manager.

“You might want to consider purchasing some footwear that would better accommodate the wintry conditions,” she recommended. “Prada boots are the height of fashion, but they don’t grip the icy pavement at all well.”

Brian frowned. What was up with this heretofore professional woman giving that kind of unsolicited advice?

“I should know,” she continued, her eyes twinkling a little. “When I saw you approaching the bank” - she gestured toward the window behind her - “nearly knocking the block off of that other fellow, it reminded me of an embarrassing spill or two I took before I learned my lesson. No one will notice if you wear less stylish boots,” she assured him. “If they have any sense at all, they’ll be doing the same.”

Brian reddened. “Thanks,” he said curtly before hurrying out of her office and then the bank. Christ, it was embarrassing to have been seen flailing about outside the bank, he thought as he carefully sidled past her office. He heaved a deep sigh. It seemed like he’d be stuck wearing his Timberland boots until spring unless, perchance, he could find _functional_ designer boots online.

The brunet stud slipped and slid his way back to where he’d parked his jeep. He was about to climb in and go in search of a parking place remotely in the vicinity of his loft when he realised he wasn’t far from the diner - closer than he’d parked the last couple of times when the eatery was his intended destination, in fact. Hmm, he might as well take the opportunity to chat up the blond brat - the kid’s mood had to have improved by now.

He carefully made his way over to the diner, mindful of every patch of ice on the pavement, and looked in through one of the plate glass windows to check if the object of his interest was in. What the fuck? he fumed, narrowing his eyes as he watched Justin exchange a kiss with another boy. Was that fucking _Bob_?

Brian sniffed disdainfully. The other kid was nothing special; Sunshine could definitely do better. He was about to enter the diner and end the sickening PDA, but then he saw Deb watching the two teens with a sappy expression on her face. If he broke up their private moment, the woman was bound to assume - wrongly - that he was jealous of Justin’s fuck toy.

Shit. Rubbing at his chest to ease the weird fucking heartburn that had been afflicting him lately, the brunet stalked away from the eatery. He had taken no more than a few steps when - Bam! - down he went on his derriere. When it rained, it poured, it seemed.

By the time Brian arrived back at his loft, he was completely disgruntled. He should’ve just left his jeep over by the diner; he hadn’t ended up much closer to his apartment building anyhow. He was ready to chuck his expensive Prada footwear in the garbage chute, since they’d been more of a hindrance than a help. Worst of all, his arse was fucking sore - and not for the right reason.

 

Not even two minutes after Eric had left, the door to the diner opened again and Justin almost ran into the bulky man who entered just as the blond was rushing by to deliver a plate of hash browns to a hung-over queen.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologised hurriedly.

The man chuckled. “No worries, Justin.”

The teenager paused, turning around. “Detective!” he greeted the man when he realised who he’d just almost mowed over. “I didn’t know you’d be coming. Are you here to see Debbie?”

Carl gave him a kind smile, eyes flitting to the left, where the boisterous redhead was debating the pros and cons of breastfeeding with a couple of lesbians. “Well, yes,” the copper admitted. “But I also wanted to see you. Even though we’ve spoken, we haven’t properly caught up for a while, and I wanted to know how you’re doing.”

Depositing the plate of hash browns atop the correct table, Justin gave the older man a grateful smile. What a fatherly thing to do, he thought to himself, especially when they’d just seen each other the previous morning. He liked the warm ball of feeling that settled in his chest at the detective’s clear interest in his well being. “Sure, we can chat. I’m due a break in a couple of minutes,” he told the man.

Carl nodded, sliding into an empty booth. “Good. You can make yourself useful in the meantime and bring me a cup of coffee and some of those lemon bars of yours,” he instructed with an amused twitch of his mouth.

“Oh, um… our coffee machine just went,” he told Horvath. “I’m sorry, it’s only tea from now on.”

The stocky man shrugged. “Black tea it is,” he amended.

Justin gave him a clumsy salute. “Ay ay, sir, black tea and a plate of lemon bars coming right up.”

The copper just shook his head fondly at the ridiculous behaviour. “By the way,” he called after Justin as he slid his thick winter jacket off his shoulders. “Was that Brian I saw walking out of here?”

Justin paused, heart fluttering in his chest at the mention of his ex-lover’s name - and wasn’t that absolutely ridiculous? “Brian?”

“Yeah, poor fellow landed on his arse right outside of the diner,” Carl recounted.

Deflating a little, Justin picked up a carafe full of the Earl Grey tea Debbie had made a minute ago. “Then that wasn’t Brian,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “The guy’s always graceful on his feet.”

The cop gave him a dubious look. “O-kay,” he said slowly. “If you say so. Sure looked like Brian, though.”

After pouring the tea, Justin slid a couple of the lemon and egg desserts onto a small plate and then brought both over to the detective’s booth. “Here you go, sir,” he teased. “Just as ordered.”

Carl snorted, grabbing the blond’s arm as the teenager went to walk away again. “Sit down with me, you clown. I’m sure Debbie will let you get your break a couple of minutes early.”

Justin hesitated. He wasn’t actually due to a break anytime soon as he had just arrived at the diner a short while ago and had pretty much been on a break for the first half hour of his shift. He wasn’t even sure why he had told Carl otherwise. “Um, I’ll ask her first,” he stammered.

Horvath tilted his head slightly in consideration, and Justin immediately got the feeling the man was trying to get a read on him, as if he was one of the criminals in his interrogation room.

The teen caved. “Uh, I might’ve exaggerated how soon my break was coming,” he offered, voice going up at the end as if he was asking a question. “I don’t know why I said that.”

The detective snorted, though he didn’t seem angry. “Go and ask, you brat,” he instructed him gently. “I’ll wait if you can’t get away.”

It turned out Justin needn’t have worried as Debbie had no problem whatsoever letting him take his break in order to chat with Carl. Stopping mid-sentence in a comment she was making about breast pumps - Ew, gross! Justin cringed - she swept an arm around the largely empty diner. “There’s hardly anyone here. And the near-blizzard conditions will keep most of the fags at home-”

“The pansy-arsed ones for sure,” one of the lesbians jeered.

“I’ll be leaving as soon as Kiki gets here anyway,” Debbie ignored the interruption. “Since there won’t be enough going on to keep her occupied, you should enjoy yourself with Carl. I’d join the two of you, but I want to get home and check in on Vic, make him a bite to eat if he’s gotten over the diarrhea.”

Justin frowned a little, his concern for Vic returning.

“Don’t worry so, Kiddo,” Deb soothed, correctly interpreting the look in his eyes. “Vic will be fine.” She took hold of his arm, turned him in the direction of the table where the detective was sitting, swatted him on the butt, and ordered, “Now, go keep Carl company.”

Grabbing a cuppa for himself, he complied, taking off his apron and going to sit next to Carl.

“So,” the older man began. “Report. How are you doing?”

“Report?” Poker-faced, Justin raised a blond eyebrow. “Is that one of your investigative techniques?” he asked blandly. He spoiled the effect he’d been shooting for, though, when a giggle escaped his lips.

Horvath smirked. “Is it working?” he asked jokingly.

“Let’s see.” Justin giggled again. “I got up, took the bus to school, had calculus first period-”

“Hey, smartass,” the cop interrupted him. “You know what happens to perps who get smart with us in interviews?”

“No, what?” The blond lad pretended to be intimidated, shrinking down in his chair.

Carl leaned closer, getting in his face. “We let the Wen out,” he deadpanned, a serious expression on his face.

A shiver that wasn’t entirely faked travelled down Justin’s spine. “I did it!” he shrilled. “Whatever it was, I did it!

That startled a genuine laugh out of the police detective, the stocky man’s shoulders shaking violently with his mirth. “Yeah, that’s usually the response,” he chuckled in between gasps for air.

Justin grinned, proud of his acting skills. If he’d carried that off, maybe he stood a chance of beating the detective at checkers. At least he should be able to capture a few more of Carl’s ‘men’ this time around. “Want to play a game of draughts while we talk?” he inquired as the policeman took another bite of his lemony treat.

The copper shrugged. “Sure, just don’t think you’ll wriggle your way out of this. You _are_ telling me about how you’re doing at school.”

“Sure,” Justin readily agreed. “Like what the maths teacher had to say about my last two calculus tests?” he inquired cheekily as he stood up and trotted over to the counter, where he snagged one of the boxed games before returning to the table.

“Sure,” Carl echoed drily. “Like that.”

“Imperceptible improvement.” Justin perfectly mimicked Dixon’s disinterested tone.

Raising his eyebrows, the copper started setting up the game board. “What did you get?” he questioned, no trace of irritation or disappointment in his voice - just plain interest.

The teen’s face crimsoned. Fuck. Showing Debbie the tests with that amazing 100% score was one thing, but it was going to sound like bragging if he told Carl. “Um, I’m satisfied,” he mumbled. “Dixon didn’t grade me down unjustly this time.”

Carl immediately noticed his avoidance tactic. “What did you get?” he asked, looking him directly in the eye as he bit off each word.

“An A,” Justin revealed, blushing as he maintained eye contact. He hoped hearing the grade would satisfy the copper. “On both tests.”

“And you are struggling to tell me about that why?” Horvath insisted.

“Erm,” Justin felt pinned by that penetrating gaze, “I didn’t want you to think I was boasting, sir.” He’d felt compelled to tack the ‘sir’ onto the end of his answer, and he suddenly wondered if Carl’s interrogation techniques weren’t just as effective as Wen’s. The man just took a different approach was all.

“Oh, lad,” the older man sighed. “I’d gladly listen to you boasting about your grades all evening. Don’t you think I’m happy that you’re doing well? I’m proud of ya.”

That warm ball of feeling that had been lodged in Justin’s chest spread throughout his body as he smiled shyly at the copper. Craig had always expected Justin to do well but couldn’t be bothered to hear about his results unless he earned less than an A; that would have sent his dad into an hour-long tirade. Carl, though, was different. He wanted the details and took pride in his accomplishments. “Ta,” he choked out, glancing down at the table to hide the tears that were suddenly welling up out of nowhere.

The copper shook his head in fond exasperation. “Just don’t start crying on me,” he snarked. “I don’t do well with crying.”

With a watery laugh, Justin grabbed one of the paper napkins from the dispenser on the table, blew his nose, and surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. The detective sounded like Brian, although his former lover was more likely to have warned the teen not to ‘snot all over’ him. “So, uh, on with my _report_ ,” he ventured. “Really, nothing else extraordinary happened, except that the cafeteria lunch was almost edible. Daphne and I still passed on it, since we had a large package of cookies from Debbie to tide us over.”

“An ordinary day,” Carl mused. “That’s what I like to hear, son. Any preference as to colour?” he challenged as he arranged the pieces on the checkerboard. “Not that you’ll fare any better against me no matter which you choose.”

Justin snickered in amusement.

The two men then whiled away the next couple of hours playing draughts and talking about this and that, even touching on politics. They didn’t really agree - Justin thought Carl was a bit too conservative in his views - but the teenager was willing to reserve judgement, partly because he didn’t feel all that well informed on a couple of the topics, but also because he didn’t want to form such fixed opinions that there was no room for compromise - stalemates benefited no one.

At the start of the second game, Justin ended up sitting on his left hand when his index finger began creeping toward the stone he wanted to move. Thank fuck Daphne had warned him about that tendency, he thought. Per his bestie’s advice, he also forced himself to try out some unpredictable moves. That led to a disastrous run of games, the detective winning each of them in under eight minutes. His face flaming with embarrassment, Justin realised he was sacrificing strategy for surprise. He forced himself to relax and simply consider alternatives to the moves he’d usually make, occasionally going with one of the other options. That worked better, the policeman needing longer to win the games.

As his play improved, Justin lost all track of time and was on the edge of his seat, thinking he might battle Carl to a draw, when Kiki’s voice penetrated his fierce concentration. “Time’s up, gents,” she announced.

While Justin looked at the tranny in confusion, Carl jested, “Thanks for the rescue. The lad was three moves away from trouncing me.”

“Some beatdown,” the lad snorted. “You’ve captured more of my stones. And there’s no way I’d actually win; I was aiming for a draw.”

“Look again,” the detective suggested. “You had a win in sight.”

“He’s right, Sunshine.” Kiki gestured at the board. “There it is, plain as day.”

Another person who could easily outmanoeuvre him, the teenager thought with a sigh. He bent over the game board, scrutinizing it closely. “Oh!” he exclaimed after a few seconds before sagging back in the seat, “I still wouldn’t have won, though - not with you having to point it out to me.”

“Hmm, I think you’d have cottoned on after you made your next move,” Carl insisted. “You had me backed into a corner.”

“The _dick’s_ right” - Kiks punned, putting a teasing emphasis on the dated term for a detective - “that round would’ve gone to you, even if you needed another move or two to finish him off.” Placing a hand on Justin’s shoulder, she imparted, “I was watching you blokes play, and was feeling right sorry for you, Kiddo. I was even wondering if it was the first time you’d opened a checkerboard, the way you were losing your men so quickly.”

“Same here,” Carl concurred with her assessment. “You didn’t play that badly on Thanksgiving.”

Would they notice if he crawled under the table? the lad wondered, his face burning with embarrassment. He didn’t say anything, not wanting to explain his initial, erratic approach.

“But then you started using your _big_ head,” - the tranny chuckled, giving his noggin a rap - “and your play improved significantly. You may not be in the detective’s league yet - and definitely not in mine,” she boasted, “but you’re not the worst player I’ve ever seen.”

Christ. That was faint praise, the lad mused. He’d have to practice _a lot_ if he didn’t want to be ousted on the first day of the upcoming tournament, which was tentatively scheduled to start on New Year’s Day.

“We can play again,” Horvath offered, having no trouble reading Justin’s expression. “We’ll turn you into a worthy opponent yet.”

“Maybe one more game now?” the boy eagerly proposed.

“Didn’t you hear me say, ‘Time’s up’?” Kiki queried.

“Is there some kind of limit to the number of games we can play?” a baffled Justin retorted, his brow furrowing.

The tranny burst out laughing. “Heck, no.” she averred. “But your shift’s over, Sunshine, so I thought you might like to go home.”

The lad swiveled around to look at the wall clock, stunned to discover that it was after eight. “Geesh,” he mumbled, feeling guilty, “I don’t think I worked more than fifteen minutes, if that. I can’t have Deb pay me for doing nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kiki admonished him. “You’re usually busting that cute bubble butt of yours, and you would have jumped in to help out if there’d been any customers to serve. It’s not like the Finn or I’ve done much this evening - he’s been testing some foul-smelling concoction in the kitchen while I’ve had my nose buried in _Glamour_ magazine. You can bet your arse that neither of us will be refusing our pay.”

“Why don’t I give you a lift, son?” Carl proposed. “It’s monkeys out there, and the snow is starting to come down.”

Looking out the window at the falling flakes, Justin reckoned that he wouldn’t make it half a block before he was soaked. “Ta, that would be great.” he replied, shooting a grateful smile at the copper.

“Let’s go then,” the detective prompted, getting up and slipping into his coat. “The sooner we leave, the better - it’s still supposed to snow a lot more tonight.”

Justin looked out of the window. “I think it already is,” he commented, watching as a couple snowflakes whirled elegantly to the ground in the light of a streetlamp.

Carl followed his gaze. “Great,” he said shortly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a grey, flat cap, which he then perched atop his head.

The blond eyed the thing skeptically. “I don’t think that’s going to warm you up much. It doesn’t even cover your ears.”

Horvath shrugged him off. “But at least my bald spot won’t get cold,” he joked. “Now get a move on, son. Go get your things.”

Justin quickly collected his backpack and his uniform, which he folded up in a bag atop his dress shoes - the blazer and slacks should be dry by morning, he estimated, as long as he hung them up when he got home. He then shrugged on his jacket, becoming annoyed when his left hand got stuck partway down the sleeve. He shoved a little harder, only to hear a ripping noise, watching as two of his fingers protruded from what had evidently been a worn spot in the fabric. “Fuck me!” he grumbled, carefully extracting his fingers from the hole and sliding them down until they emerged from the cuff. Shit. Was it even possible to darn closed that big a hole? he wondered, hoping Debbie could show him what to do.

“Justin, sweetheart!” Kiki called out, sticking her head in the door. “That nice policeman is going to wear a hole in the lino if you take any longer. Did you get stuck or something?”

The teenager snorted. “Or something,” he agreed. His suspicion that the tranny had observed his struggles vanished, though, when her eyebrows drew together in a look of confusion. “Um, I’m ready now,” he modified his curt response. “I just needed to fold up my school uniform so I can wear it tomorrow.”

“Won’t you have the day off?” Kiks inquired as she followed him out of the break room. “When I was watching the telly a little bit ago, the announcer was talking about all the citywide closures the snow is causing.”

“Don’t I wish.” Justin couldn’t keep a pout from forming as he related, “St James refuses to close for _just a little_ snow.”

“Just a little?” Kiki queried, glancing out the window, where the snowflakes had begun to cluster together more thickly in the few short minutes Justin had been inside the break room.

“That’s the most absurd policy,” Carl asserted, “especially when they haven’t stated in black and white just what constitutes ‘a little.’”

“That’s St James.” The teenager shrugged in resignation. “Unlike my first period teacher, though, most of the faculty aren’t jerks about it if you’re late or miss class because of extreme weather.”

“Can you get there on time?” Carl asked, brow furrowed in concern. “The buses will be delayed, I suspect.”

“It’s not so bad,” Justin explained. “I just catch an early bus and study on the way in. It’s the afternoons that can be problematic.”

“You won’t have to worry tomorrow,” the detective announced. “I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to impose,” the blond lad demurred, “and take you away from your duties. Bad enough that I already did that once,” he mumbled.

“I’ll be there at three o’clock,” Carl insisted. “Whether you get into the car or not is up to you, of course. If you don’t want to waste my time, though, I suggest you do.”

The teenager huffed out a laugh. “Thank you, detective-”

“Carl.”

“Thank you, _Carl_ ,” Justin amended. “I’m grateful.”

“Well then,” the copper said, opening the door and motioning for Justin to precede him, “let’s get you home so you can be grateful again tomorrow.”

The blond laughed aloud this time, genuine amusement crinkling his eyes, as he preceded the older man out of the diner. When he discovered that Carl’s vehicle was parked almost directly in front of the door, just two car lengths away, he laughed again as he imagined Brian trying to ‘borrow’ the detective’s parking karma - he’d had no success in reclaiming his own luck from Ted, so maybe he’d like to take a copper’s? As long as it wasn’t Wen’s, of course. No one would dare try that with the scary Asian.

“I didn’t think I was quite that funny,” Carl noted wryly as he pressed the fob to unlock the doors.

“Um, I was just thinking about parking karma,” the blond admitted. “How some have it and some don’t.”

“Yeah, well, mine’s not near as good as Wen’s.” Carl quibbled as they settled into the car and fastened their seatbelts. “She always manages to find a spot dead in front of her destination.”

Admiring the way Carl smoothly pulled away from the curb, Justin queried, “Is she as good a driver as you, or does she just scare everyone into scattering out of her way? You know, just one look at her and *poof* they’re gone.”

The detective chuckled. “She takes no prisoners, no matter the weather conditions or how congested the traffic - she always drives like a maniac.”

“Has she caused a lot of car crashes then?” Justin wondered.

“Intentionally or unintentionally?” Carl quipped. “Because that woman has not crashed a single car in her life unless she meant to.”

 

In only a few minutes, Carl was rolling down the street to Deb’s house, which was colourfully lit up with the decorations Justin had helped put up the day before. “Erm,” the teenager mumbled, really empathising with Michael all of a sudden. The reindeers’ blinking phalluses, which hadn’t seemed like such a big deal a night ago, were now downright mortifying.

Pulling into a free spot directly across the street from Debbie’s house, the copper eyed the display in silence for a few long seconds. “Huh,” he finally commented “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like that.”

“It’s meant to show that we’re out and proud,” Justin disclosed, slowly straightening from his slunk-down position. He _was_ out and proud he reminded himself. “You know,” he giggled, gazing at the prominent, flashing dongs, “like how you can’t keep a gay man down.”

“Or a reindeer,” Carl wryly observed. “I just hope Debbie doesn’t expect me to be hung like that.”

Ew, the blond boy thought, startled by the off-colour remark. He didn’t want to hear about _that_ from someone who was almost a father to him. Then again, he mused, giggling, it just went to show that the detective could hold his own with Debbie, which was essential if he wanted to date the feisty woman.

Once his fit of the giggles tapered off, Justin invited, “Uh, would you like to come in? I could show you the drawings I mentioned before.”

“Sure.” the detective replied, immediately turning off the engine and climbing out from behind the steering wheel.

Carl had accepted with such alacrity that Justin couldn’t resist teasing as he exited the car, “My sketches aren’t the main draw, are they?”

The policeman laughed comfortably as they crossed the street. “I’ll admit to wanting to chat up a certain redhead, but there’s no reason I can’t have a gander at your drawings as well.”

“I’ve brought company,” Justin called out as he entered the house.

“Eye candy, I hope?” Vic shouted back.

The boy laughed as he hung up his and Carl’s coats, before leading the way to the kitchen, where Vic was sitting at the table, looking quite chipper, Justin was pleased to see.

When he saw who it was, he immediately adopted a lugubrious expression. “The eye candy’s for you, Sis,” he informed Debbie, who was stirring something on the cooker. “It’s Mr Law and Order.”

“Carl!” Debbie turned her head, greeting the detective with a delighted smile.

The copper smiled back at his inamorata, ambling over to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

Justin was torn between being grossed out by the mild demonstration of affection and wondering if that was the best Carl could do. He almost burst out laughing when Vic rolled his eyes, equally unimpressed.

“What did you think of our little rooftop display?” Vic slyly questioned Deb’s beau.

Not nearly as complacent as he had been in the car, Horvath shuffled his feet and cast about for an inoffensive answer. “It’s unique,” he finally said rather lamely.

He really shouldn’t, Justin knew, but he couldn’t help himself. “Carl’s worried about how he’ll measure up,” he blurted out.

Fortunately, the detective didn’t take offence. He just shook his head at Justin and muttered something about “teenage boys” to Debbie.

Vic gave a hearty laugh, slapping a hand against his leg. “Not even Brian has the inches to measure up to Rudolph and his cohorts,” he proclaimed.

“I wouldn’t put it past that ragazzo to clamber up on the roof with a ruler and have a pissing contest, though.” Deb cackled.

Justin nodded in agreement. That did sound like his former lover, who was never one to concede easily, especially when it came to his dick.

“Weren’t you going to show me your sketches?” Carl asked, recovering his equilibrium and redirecting the conversation.

“He can show them to you over dinner,” Debbie proposed, glancing at Carl. “You’ll stay, right? It’s just a simple spaghetti bolognese, along with garlic bread and salad, but there’s more than enough to feed four people.”

“I shouldn’t,” the detective patted his belly, “seeing as how I’m growing in the wrong direction nowadays, but that smells too good to resist.”

As Justin dashed upstairs to get his sketchpad - grabbing his rucksack and damp uniform on the way - he heard Debbie chuckle, “Who cares about a bit of extra girth? It just gives a person more to hold on to.”

Yikes! That was way too much information, and now he had a visual creeping into his mind that he definitely didn’t want. If only they kept brain bleach in the bathroom, he thought humorously.

A few minutes later, his school clothes hung up to finish drying out, he traipsed back down the stairs, sketchbook in hand.

“Anything I’ll need to turn a blind eye to?” Carl asked, accepting the sketchpad a bit warily.

“Nah. I removed the nudes a few days ago.” Justin assured him. “I remembered they aren’t your thing-”

“Christ, they’re my favourite,” Vic mourned. “Don’t I get any eye candy at all?”

“Come off it, you dirty old man,” Debbie laughingly chastised her brother, giving the noodles a final stir before removing the pot from the heat. “You’ve got your new mags to look at.”

“Yeah, but none of those blokes measure up to Sunshine’s preferred model,” Vic retorted.

Blushing to the roots of his blond hair, Justin hissed, “I’ll give you a private viewing.”

“I’ll lend you my mags - before Sis can get her paws on them,” Vic promised, holding out his hand. “Fair exchange?”

“Deal,” the teenager agreed, shaking on it. Brian might be the best looking of the lot, but the blokes in those porn magazines of Vic’s were pretty darned drool-worthy too and would make excellent jerk-off material.

Debbie simply chuckled fondly, undoubtedly knowing she’d get her hands on the mags soon enough, whilst Horvath didn’t pay any attention to the bargain the other two men had made, his face impossible to read as he slowly leafed through the sketchpad. Justin was on tenterhooks as he bustled around the table, glancing at Carl every now and then as he waited to hear the detective’s opinion.

When the redhead carried the meat sauce over to the table, affectionately ruffling Vic’s hair before she sat down, the policeman glanced up at the siblings and then back down at the drawing in front of him. “You’ve really got them dead to rights, lad,” he praised, turning around the pad to reveal a sketch of Debbie and Vic playing Scrabble, which Justin had drawn from memory.

Justin beamed, bouncing a little in excitement, made up that the fatherly detective liked his drawings.

Leaning over the table, Deb squinted at the sketch. “There it is!” she exclaimed. “Queenly fuckery! I remember you coming from behind and blowing past both me and Vic with that one. You completely knocked me off my Scrabble pedestal.”

“Why aren’t you in the picture, Kiddo?” Vic inquired. “I can still see the smug grin you were sporting.”

The boy shrugged. “It’s really hard to draw myself, even when I’m working from a photo or looking in the mirror. That’s my weakest point as an artist, I guess.”

“Well, you’d better add yourself to that one or sketch the scene again with you in it,” Debbie ordered, sitting back down in her chair. “I’m going to have it framed, with the caption _Beat That!_ and hang it in the living room.”

“I don’t want to mar any of these with food stains,” Carl declared, folding the cover back over the sketches, “so I’ll look at the rest of them after we finish eating, okay?”

The blond nodded in agreement, heaving a sigh of relief. While she was bent over the table, Deb’s bosom had been pressed up against the bowl with the sauce, and he was afraid it was going to tip over, splashing red bits onto his sketches.

“You’d make a fine police artist,” the policeman commented as he accepted a helping of pasta from Debbie. “After viewing that sketch, I’m confident no one would have any trouble identifying either of these two characters” - he jerked a thumb at Vic and Deb - “in a lineup.”

“The infamous Scrabble siblings,” Vic joked, “pursued by the police for years before a family member turned them in.”

“Little Picasso!” Debbie gasped in sham outrage, shaking a finger at Justin. “How could you betray your kith and kin like that?”

All of them fell about laughing at the redhead’s theatrics, Deb looking quite proud of herself.

“I’m chuffed that you think I’d be a good police artist,” Justin stated once the hilarity had died down, “but I’m not sure what career I’ll want. I can’t imagine not being an artist of some kind, but I still have so much to learn and so many kinds of art I’d like to try out.”

“Even though you’d make a fine police artist - your eye for detail is incredible - that doesn’t mean I think it’s the right career path for you.” Horvath professed. “It would limit your creativity, which would be a shame.”

“Have you told Carl that you already have gainful employment as an artist?” Debbie asked.

When the detective shook his head at him in fond exasperation, Justin jumped in to defend himself. “We were discussing so many different things that I just forgot to mention it. Honest.”

“That sounds like major news to me,” the copper chided. “What is it you’ll be doing?”

“Um, Brian’s asked me to do some freelancing for his new firm, while he’s getting it off the ground,” Justin disclosed.

“He’d never have hired the lad if he didn’t think Justin would be bloody good at it,” Vic interceded. “I can’t count the number of times he’s ranted about the incompetent graphic designers at the agency where he used to work.”

“Good for you, son. That sounds like quite a coup for a young artist.” Carl shrewdly observed. “But won’t it involve a lot of hours? How are you going to fit it in with everything else?”

“My question precisely,” Debbie said, a look of satisfaction crossing her face at the way the detective was putting Justin on the spot. “Something needs to give, but the lad refuses to admit it.”

Fuck. Under Carl’s penetrating gaze, the teenager felt like a butterfly that had been pinned to a board, with no wiggle room left. “I just want to give it a go,” he said for what had to be the umpteenth time, “see if I can’t juggle it all.”

“Hmm,” the copper hummed, “seems to me you’re being mighty foolish, but I guess you have to learn for yourself. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Forbearing from arguing the point - he had nothing new to say - Justin merely nodded in assent before shoveling more food into his mouth. Dratted hair, he thought as he almost inhaled a dangling blond strand along with the spaghetti noodles.

“What kind of projects will you be working on for Brian?” Carl inquired, curiosity and interest mixed together in his voice. “I don’t know the first thing about advertising, other than admen valuing a generic face far more than we cops do.”

“I get why that would make it more difficult for the police to track down a criminal - everyone and their brother would think they’d seen the person,” Vic chimed in. “But what benefit would an ordinary joe have for the advertising world?”

“Kinney told me it was because potential buyers think they recognise the face in the advertisement - it could be their third cousin or something - they relate better to the product that’s being marketed, and they’re more likely to buy it.”

“Not if it’s my third cousin, Gina.” Debbie shuddered theatrically. “The woman’s a total cow - her mug included.”

“But then she’d probably stand out,” Justin reasoned, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. “She might have massive crow’s feet around her eyes from scowling so much.”

“She did have a pinched look about her the last time we saw her, nigh on six years ago,” Vic noted.

“That would be enough to separate her from the _herd_ , Carl punned, earning a chuckle from Debbie. “It’s pretty much impossible to smooth out a sour expression that’s been developed over many years.”

“Unless she gets a facelift,” Vic inserted.

“That’d just make her more plasticky - like those fake boobs of hers.” the redhead maligned her distant cousin. “Unlike mine, which are all natural,” she added, her bosom jiggling as she laughed.

Carl’s gaze, Justin noticed, seemed to be riveted to the bouncing objects. Straight guys and tits, he sighed to himself. Go figure.

Finally looking away from Deb’s chest, Carl glanced first at Vic and then at Justin, both of whom were looking at him with an amused gleam in their eyes. Horvath blushed a little before addressing Justin in an obvious ploy to redirect their attention to another subject. “You going for the shaggy look, son?” he inquired of the teen, whose hair had again flopped over his forehead and was obscuring his vision.

“Fuck, no.” Justin irritably brushed back the straying hair. “I need to get it cut before it earns me a demerit at St James and I land in detention again. But the barber I used to go to is on the other side of the city. Never mind that he charged an arm and a leg for what I always thought was a pretty mediocre haircut.”

“I could cut it for you,” Vic offered with a jovial smile. “I did that for a couple of my mates in New York, and none of them grabbed a bag to put over their heads afterward.”

Twining a tendril of blond hair around his index finger, the teenager considered Vic’s proposal. He couldn’t help feeling dubious, especially when a couple of lines from the _Rub-a-dub-dub_ nursery rhyme popped into his head at that moment, possibly generated by the ‘butcher and beautician’ zinger from this morning’s calculus class.

 _The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,_  
_And all of them out to sea._

Even though that shouldn’t have any bearing on Vic’s ability to cut hair, he couldn’t help feeling uncertain. “Uh, thanks.” he finally muttered, unsuccessfully trying to hide his doubts about the idea.

“Just let me know. I’ll be glad to have at you anytime.” Vic leered at the teen and waggled his eyebrows playfully.

“You old reprobate,” Debbie reprimanded her brother, giving him a friendly swat on the arm. “Haul your arse up and help me clear off the table.”

“I’ll help.” Justin immediately began to rise from his chair, only to have Vic push him back down.

“You stay there,” he commanded, “and look through the rest of your sketches with Carl. Sis and I will take care of the dishes.”

Eager to hear what else Carl had to say about his work, Justin plunked his rear back down and scooted his chair closer to the detective.

“Is this the best friend you’ve mentioned a few times?” Carl asked as he examined a drawing of a girl with a mischievous expression on her face, her hand raised to toss a wadded-up paper napkin, blurred outlines of other students visible in the background.

“Yeah, that’s Daphne,” Justin verified, breaking into a smile as he viewed the impish grin on his bestie’s face. He really had captured her perfectly.

“She looks like a feisty young woman,” Horvath surmised, glancing across the kitchen at the feisty redhead he was courting.

“Yeah, she and Deb get on like a house on fire,” the teenager acknowledged. “I don’t stand a chance when they gang up on me.”

“Men never do with women.” the detective chuckled ruefully as he turned to the next page. Startled, he let out a loud guffaw as he was confronted with an image of Wen facing off against Dr Perkins, smoke curling out of the petite detective’s nostrils and the principal cowering away from her, a dark stain spreading down one pant leg and a puddle forming on the floor.

"Erm, that's how I imagined it might've gone between the two of them," Justin revealed, pointing at the Chinese-style ink drawing. “The headmaster blustered for a good ten to fifteen minutes about how the administration at St James is always fair and impartial and how there was no reason to sic my friend from the police on him. Jerkins had this fine tremor running through his body the whole time he was talking at me - he didn’t let me get a single word in edgewise - and it really did look like he might’ve just changed his pants, ya know?”

Reaching over, Justin flipped to the next page, which contained a series of smaller caricatures. In the first one, Wen was striding out of the principal’s office, her face expressionless, although there was the slightest trace of amused satisfaction lurking in her dark eyes. In the next sketch, Perkins was sagging in relief against the door, which he’d just slammed shut. The caption beneath the drawing read, ‘How can someone who uttered maybe five short sentences be so fucking scary?’

Then came a likeness of Perkins sliding off his slacks, displaying a flabby ass in boxers, which had a large, dark patch on the back. The final sketch was of the headmaster throwing open the door to his office and shouting at his secretaries, ‘Go get that effing little faggot, and bring him here, but for God’s sake don’t use the word ‘faggot’. We’ll have to be PC for a while, so the pansy doesn’t terrorise us with that fire-breather again.’

Carl continued to laugh until he reached the last sketch, frowning as he read the legend. “I’d wager there’s more than a kernel of truth in this one,” he muttered, turning his head to look directly at Justin. “Have any of the administrators or faculty ever called you a ‘faggot’? the detective asked, his jaw clenching and his eyes going flinty as he uttered the derogatory appellation.

Justin could tell that Horvath wouldn’t be pleased if he skirted around the truth, so he answered honestly. “Mostly it’s insinuation, hostile stares, or borderline slurs, like changing ‘poofter’ to ‘pupil’ mid-word. Not that I could ever prove that’s what the person was going to say,” he noted somewhat bitterly. “There was also one of the school secretaries referring to gays as ‘your kind’. And when I was waiting to meet with Perkins about my torched locker, I overheard him ask Ms Cuthbert - that’s one of the secretaries - if ‘that faggot’ was out there. If the old sourpuss had picked up her telephone instead of pressing the intercom button, I wouldn’t have heard him say that, though.”

“Has there been any improvement since Wen visited Dr Perkins?” the detective questioned sharply. “Any more slurs like those you just mentioned?”

The boy thought about it for a moment. “I suppose the hostility has eased up a touch. That might be why Dixon scored me at 100% on those two exams; up till now, he’s always made up something so he could mark me down a little. And the poofter-pupil ‘mix-up’ happened just a couple days ago.”

“Do me a favor,” Carl said. “Keep a record of all incidents, including altercations with other students. “If matters start escalating again, that could prove useful.”

“Okay.” Justin was willing to do that if the detective thought it was important. “Um, about the caricatures of Wen’s visit to St James - do you think she’d like them? She inspired the drawings and I’d like to give them to her - maybe for Christmas - but, uh, not if she’d find them offensive.”

“She’ll get a huge kick out of them, I’m sure,” Horvath stated with absolute certainty. “Wen might even crack a smile, which would be her equivalent of a belly laugh.”

“Does she like dragons?” Justin inquired abruptly.

“Because of the fire-breathing thing?” Carl wondered. “She’ll be made up that she came across that fearsome.”

Justin grinned to himself. The origami dragon was going to be the _perfect_ companion to the caricatures.

 

A little later, after they’d finished leafing through his sketchpad, Justin excused himself to go upstairs and study. Vic had already parked himself in front of the TV, which left the kitchen to the courting couple. The sketchbook secured under his arm, the blond carried a plateful of cookies that Deb had pressed into his hand along with a tall glass of milk. Looking over his shoulder as he started up the stairs, he saw Deb and Carl conferring at the table, their foreheads nearly touching. He speculated that Carl might be getting his flirt on, since Debbie’s cheeks were rapidly turning rosy.

While he consumed the cookies, Justin completed one of the SAT math practice tests. Utterly bored by the elementary algebra, geometry, and trigonometry questions - it took him all of twenty-five minutes to complete the exam, instead of the allotted eighty, with nary a wrong answer - he then turned to his calculus textbook, continuing to work ahead on chapters that wouldn’t be covered until the spring semester.

Enough of maths for now, the lad decided, stretching his arms above his head. Another good night’s sleep - which a session with _BOB_ should ensure - and he’d be more alert on the morrow. He’d been fucking horny ever since talking to Eric this afternoon and was looking forward to taking the edge off.

Remembering that he hadn’t been able to find the dildo in the bedside table the night before, the blond dropped down flat on his stomach and peered under the bed but discovered nothing except a couple of forlorn dust bunnies. He’d have to get those out with a broom the next day, he mused, or they might provoke an allergy attack.

Since _BOB_ wasn’t under the bed, Justin wondered where the toy could be hiding. He searched everywhere in the room - behind the door, in the dresser, desk, and closet, even emptying out his backpack - but he didn’t uncover the toy. It had to be _somewhere_ in the room; maybe it was hiding in plain sight and he just couldn’t see it because he still felt groggy from going short on sleep for so many days in a row.

Frustrated, he gave up - he’d look again the next day - and trudged to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. He slid into bed a few minutes later and gave himself a rather uninspired handjob, his imagination failing him because he missed his _Battery Operated Brian_. It was enough, however, to send him to sleep, the lad easily falling into a dream about a handsome, hazel-eyed devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonum mane = good morning  
> Et tu puer scholar = and to you, young scholar  
> In tempore illo. Fugit inreparabile tempus. = Have at it. Irreplaceable time flies.
> 
> As usual, any graphics accompanying the chapter can be seen here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=33
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit
> 
> We’ve updated the schedule a little bit - you can now see exactly which chapter(s) the events on a particular date correspond with. You can access the schedule via the FanDoc or here: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1pefwKONG4c868SvopnMGo2o2UVy42PRbHjVBHy6YaNw/edit#gid=0


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve made a big time jump, folks. :D An entire day has been skipped over. We are moving to Wednesday the 6th.

“You’re late,” Brian exclaimed as soon as Cynthia alighted from the taxi that had brought her to the gym. “Seventeen minutes,” he specified when the blonde didn’t look sufficiently chastised.

Ted rolled his eyes. “If my memory serves, _you_ were nine minutes late, Brian,” he said. “We were supposed to meet at eleven.”

The adman's brow furrowed. “I would’ve been on time had _someone_ not parked in my spot,” he answered with a meaningful look at Ted’s car that was parked right in front of the Ript entrance. “I had to wade through snow from a whole block away.”

Cynthia chuckled, taking off her thick wool scarf as the trio entered the reception area of the gym. “So you’ve already started on your cardio,” she teased him. “What a horror.”

Shrugging off his ridiculously expensive Loro Piana coat, Brian took a deep breath. “This is the last time I’m doing this,” he informed his friends. “Whose stupid idea was it to come here together anyway?”

“Someone - who shall remain unnamed - said we need to exercise our bodies as well as our brains,” Ted quipped, “or we’ll all end up looking like the Goodyear Blimp.”

“That sad sack must be awfully worried about cellulite build-up.” Cynthia commisserated. “Probably from ingesting too much sugar.”

“It’s a serious concern.” The financial wizard shook his head mournfully. “I understand the ounces can pile on overnight.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. You won’t think it’s so funny, when clients refuse to hire us because our agency is run by a bunch of fatties,” Brian warned direfully.

“It’s not like we’re going to be in the adverts.” Cynthia removed a long, puffy down coat, which had enveloped her from neck to ankles, displaying a long-sleeved tee, form-fitting leggings, and a pair of high-top trainers. “That’s not to say that I wouldn’t make an excellent model,” she claimed, looking down admiringly at her svelte figure.

The adman looked her up and down, trying fruitlessly to find any imperfections - be it a shadow of a love handle or some kind of disproportion. Damned woman was pretty much perfect, though. He scowled, saying, “Then maybe you should consider a career change; I wouldn’t want to hold you back from your dreams.”

Cynthia pursed her lips and tapped a finger against them consideringly.

“Don’t you dare jump ship!” Ted beseeched. “I lack your skills for dealing with his majesty’s queen-outs.”

Brian harrumphed. As if he’d ever do anything so ridiculous as to _queen out_.

“You’re right.” the blonde conceded after making the men wait a few long seconds for her decision. “It would be unfair to both you and Bethany. Heck, the girl would quit before an hour was out.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Ted dramatised, wringing his hands as his doleful expression morphed into one of relief.

Although he rolled his eyes at his CFO’s theatrics, Brian was almost equally grateful. He shuddered mentally as he envisioned going through countless secretaries before he found one who would do half as well as Cynthia. Not that he had any intention of letting the blonde know just how indispensible she’d become…

“Bri,” Ted hissed, interrupting his thoughts. “Say ‘thank you’!”

“What for?” Brian snarked.

Shaking her head in fond exasperation, Cynthia teased, “Don’t worry, boss. You can make it up to me.”

“Okay, fine,” the ad exec grumbled, “you can charge another box of chocolates to my Amex.”

“Mmm, no,” the blond woman declined his offer as he led the way to the front desk, waving his membership card at the receptionist as he signed Cynthia is as his guest, and announcing, “She’s with me.”

“Switching teams, Kinney?” the receptionist - who Brian recalled had a very mediocre blowjob technique - smirked at the stud.

Ignoring the ridiculous supposition, Brian rapped his knuckles against the counter. “A locker for the lady. _Now_ ,” he emphasised when the moron didn’t move.

“You know,” Mediocre Blowjob batted his eyelashes at Cynthia as he slid the key to a locker across the counter, “I sometimes take a walk on the wild side.”

“Don’t,” the adman warned him as he accepted the key and nudged his colleagues toward the back of the gym. “She’d eat you alive.”

“Not to mention,” the blonde woman murmured as they moved away from the desk, “that I like a bit of brain with my brawn.”

“Me too,” Ted agreed, his face taking on a dreamy cast.

“Who gives a fuck about brains in a hookup?” Brian groused. “It’s all about getting in and out-”

“With the maximum of pleasure and minimum of bullshit,” Cyn and Ted chorused.

The adman scowled at his uppity employees. He hated it when someone else finished his sentences. Except for a slender blond, whose physique hid a surprising amount of brawn… Irritated to find his thoughts again meandering to the little twat, he turned to his assistant just before they reached the locker rooms and raised an expectant eyebrow.

The bloody-minded woman countered with an eyebrow lift of her own.

“What do you want then?” Brian huffed. “Keep it reasonable,” he warned when she smirked at him.

“Ask for a raise!” Ted recommended.

Brian smirked at the accountant. “Fine, Schmidt, I’ll decrease your salary so I can pay my assistant more.”

“Oh, please.” Cynthia shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m already making almost as much as the financial wizard. I _do_ expect a hefty increase when I finish my degree, though.”

Well, Brian reflected philosophically, he did believe in recognizing accomplishments. Wait, shouldn’t she have earned that blasted degree by now? Giving voice to his puzzlement, he snarked, “Weren’t you supposed to graduate with your bachelor’s in underwater basket weaving in May?”

“As opposed to underwater blowjobs?” Cynthia riposted.

“An essential skill for my tricks.” the stud deadpanned.

“Every fag’s dream,” Ted inserted drily, “to major in blowing Brian Kinney underwater.”

“I know, right?” Brian asserted smugly.

“What if they asphyxiate?” Ted wondered.

“They don’t graduate.” Brian shrugged indifferently.

“Good thing I’m actually majoring in Human Resources Management.” Cynthia snorted. “Your people skills leave a lot to be desired, boss.”

“That is what minions are for,” the adman readily agreed, “to deal with the hoi polloi.”

“The reason I haven’t graduated yet,” the blonde clarified, “is that I decided to fast track straight to a master’s degree; I’ll complete a two-year degree in one year.”

Ted whistled, “That’s quite an accomplishment, “especially when you’re working more than full-time for an obsess-” In the face of Brian’s glare, the older man abruptly stopped speaking.

“What was that, Theodore?” Brian asked mildly, curious to see how his friend would dig himself out of that faux pas.

“Obsessively brilliant ad exec,” Ted finished insouciantly.

I’ll be damned, Brian thought, he was clearly rubbing off on the accountant. The man was really learning to think on his feet.

“Did you actually want to exercise while we’re here?” Cyn suddenly questioned.

“Of course not,” Brian replied sarcastically. “Why meet at a gym to work out?”

“We’ve been standing here yakking for nearly fifteen minutes,” the blonde observed.

“Shit,” Brian grumbled. “Let’s get changed. You can tell me whether you want chocolates, flowers, or a bottle of wine to get me back in your good graces.”

“It’s not going to be that easy, Bri,” the blonde tossed over her shoulder with a laugh as she entered the women’s locker room.

After changing into their sports gear, Brian and Ted returned to the main part of the gym, where Cynthia was already running at a good clip on a sharply inclined treadmill.

“Fuck, she’s good,” Ted breathed out in awe. “That machine must be set at, what, at least twelve percent? I’ve never tried a climb that sharp.”

 _Neither have I_ , Brian mused sourly to himself as he watched Cynthia’s thigh muscles move smoothly beneath her black leggings. What was the deal with everyone, even his slip of a blonde assistant, outperforming him in the gym of late? Fucking woman didn’t even appear to be breathing hard, although it was difficult to tell since her head was turned away from him. Oh, fuck, no, he thought in horror as he realised who was on the neighbouring treadmill…

Ted broke into his thoughts, exclaiming delightedly, “Emmett’s here!”

“No shit,” Brian grumbled, pretending he’d been aware of the tall queen’s presence the whole time. It wasn’t as if Cynthia’s slight frame could hide someone of that stature, but Brian really hadn’t noticed him until a second ago. Christ, Em must have been serious about that regular ‘morning jog’ he’d mentioned - at least until he picked up his trick _du jour_ , or more likely _du matin_ , Brian reasoned with a snort of amusement. He couldn’t help admiring Em for being almost as successful as he was at pulling tricks.

Brian’s good humour flatlined, though, when he realised the flamboyant man’s treadmill was inclined almost as steeply as Cynthia’s and that he was running as fast as the blonde woman, all whilst energetically flapping his arms and his gob. Could he be on steroids, the adman wondered? What other explanation could there be for an _athletic_ Emmett?

“Let’s go say hi!” the usually staid accountant urged happily, bounding toward his best mate like an overgrown puppy dog.

The younger brunet lagged behind, trying to appear as if he were canvassing the area for potential tricks. It wasn’t very effective, however, considering that there was almost no one else in the gym.

A sudden “Brian, boyo!” overlapped with an enthusiastic “Hey, Bri!” startled the adman, causing him to drop the activity tracker that he’d been about to wrap around his wrist. He’d decided the day before that a fitness monitor would both motivate him to reach an easy goal of ten thousand steps per day and would quickly demonstrate that his fitness level hadn’t dropped as much as he feared. Estimating that the paltry number of steps he’d take in his loft and on the way to Ript would be too few to be worth the bother, he planned to put on the wristband monitor when he got to the gym. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten about his nicked parking karma - the _thousands_ of steps generated by walking the length of that horrendously long block would have made a difference.

“What’s that?” DC asked inquisitively from the treadmill next to Emmett. “Getting too sedentary, are you, laddie?”

“Oh!” Emmett interjected, his face brightening as if he’d just seen the light. “Was lack of fitness the reason you were wallowing around like Aunt Lula’s Bessie? You know, Bri, your ass does look _rounder_ than before.”

“Who’s Bessie?” Cynthia queried, avid interest sparkling in her blue eyes.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Em whispered loudly, pretending to quail at the fierce look Brian directed his way.

Brian was torn between scowling at the annoying queen, trying to figure out where DC had come from, and unobtrusively angling his head to take a look at his arse as he bent over to retrieve the activity tracker. Shit, maybe those extra ounces had settled in his glutes. He didn’t want to lose the dimples of Venus that Justin had admired on more than one occasion, laving them with his tongue before moving lower…

“Need some help?” Theodore inquired teasingly, recalling Brian’s wandering attention as he snatched up the wristband and handed it to him. “You’ve got to be careful not to overdo it, now that you’re rapidly approaching _the big three oh_.”

Since he wasn’t about to admit how vulnerable he was feeling about his age, weight, and fitness, Brian ignored his _older_ friend. There had to be some hope for him anyroad, he figured, since Ted was well past thirty and trimmer than he’d ever been. “What’re you doing here?” he grouchily addressed DC. “I’m paying you to transform the bathhouse, not idle your time away at the gym.”

“Now, now, boyo.” The burly construction worked reached out and patted Brian on the head, earning himself a murderous glare. “I keep a spare kit at Ript so I can work out whenever I’m here. As for why I’m here,” he winked as he continued to lope along at what looked like the treadmill’s maximum speed, “I thought you might like to discuss _inches_ before my crew really gets started.”

Cynthia, Ted, and Em burst out laughing, causing Brian to transfer his ire to them. None of them seemed the least bit intimidated by his killer stare, unfortunately.

“Or we could just chat about what a great pick-up joint this is,” Emmett suggested cheekily, confirming Brian’s suspicion as to why the flashy queen was here.

“I would’ve thought you’d have the sense to exercise later in the day then, Honeycutt.” Brian observed, a bit of malicious satisfaction lacing his tone. “After all, you crashed and burned with the only prospect last Saturday.”

“I’d hardly call learning the man had a partner crashing and burning.” the nelly bottom sniffed disdainfully. “It didn’t really matter anywho, since I picked up the built chap who came in a few minutes later. You’d know that, _Bri_ , if you’d watched a little longer instead of trying to prove that you could outmuscle Dr Dave.”

Thank fuck Honeycutt hadn’t seen him back out of that contest, Brian thought, or he’d never hear the end of it. “I guess the early morning is a good time to pull tricks,” Brian conceded. “Less competition from studs like me. It certainly makes more sense than a bookstore, which wouldn’t even be open at this hour.”

“You know, Em,” Theodore inserted slyly as he climbed onto the treadmill next to DC, selected the settings he wanted, and started jogging, “maybe you should try looking under a streetlight. That seems to be surprisingly effective.”

“Really?” DC inquired sceptically. “Does it need to be a specific lamp post, or will any old streetlight do?”

“From what I’ve observed,” Emmett imparted in a hushed voice, “the one closest to the entrance to Babylon is best. Pretty much any lame line will get you what you want. Like, ‘How’s it going? You had a busy night?’”

While Brian glowered at the grinning queen, DC let out a mighty guffaw, and Cynthia dissolved into giggles.

Casting a laughter-filled, knowing glance at her boss, Cyn gasped out between snickers, “Does that kind of trite pitch actually work on gay men?”

As if any of these laughing baboons would know a good pick-up line if they heard one, Brian mused crossly. Besides, those chat-up lines had worked like a charm in the past. Huh, maybe the blond twat would respond favourably if he recycled his lines from that first night? It was worth a go, Brian concluded, since nothing else had worked.

Pleased to have sussed out a new approach to get Justin back into his bed, Brian decided he’d better get on with his exercise regime - he’d already wasted half an hour of his planned gym time - as well as discuss the remodel with DC. He contemplated starting his workout on the treadmill but changed his mind as he watched the foursome currently occupying half of the available machines. None of them were huffing and puffing as they merrily compared the best and worst pickup lines and, considering his dismal showing on Saturday, he didn’t want to take the chance that they’d all show him up. Fucking Schmidt and his hare-brained idea about Kinnetik’s employees exercising together at the gym, Brian thought morosely. The adman was _never_ coming to Ript with his employees again.

Brian abruptly demanded of DC, “Leave the chattering magpies to their gossip and meet me by the free weights.” As he stalked toward the back of the room, he heard Emmett murmur something about _sows_ , so he shouted testily, “Now, dammit!”

“There, there, boyo,” DC said as he turned off the machine and ambled over to join Brian, “no need to get your knickers in a twist.”

He fucking well _did not_ wear _knickers_ , but the adman couldn’t come up with a retort that didn’t sound childish, so he settled for scowling at the overly muscled man. DC disregarded his foul mood, giving him a pat on the back - which nearly made Brian fall face first onto the padded bench - and remarked sympathetically, “Don’t take it so hard. There can only be one queen of the treadmill, and your tall friend has you outclassed.”

On the spot, Brian resolved to visit Ript even earlier in the morning and to spend as long as needed to build up his stamina on the treadmill. He’d make sure not to encounter his flamboyant friend until he could outperform him - and every other fag in the Pitts - on the treadmill, and on all the other exercise equipment too.

As he was plotting out his strategy, DC lazily began raising and lowering a twenty-pound barbell in one-handed bicep curls to warm up his muscles. After ten reps with each hand, he upped the weight to forty pounds. The brawny man’s ridiculous ‘macho posturing’ had Brian immediately revising his goals; he’d settle for usurping Honeycutt as the ‘treadmill queen.'

 

Shortly after Justin started his shift at the diner that afternoon and finished wiping down a couple of vacated tables, Fahad motioned to him from the kitchen pass-through.

“What’s this?” the blond lad asked, taking a deep whiff of the steaming bowl of soup that Fahad had placed on the window ledge.

“One of Fahad’s Persian concoctions, ashy something or other,” Debbie yelled from over by the cash register. “It’s far more than plain old bean and noodle soup, according to him, anyway.”

Fahad stuck his head out of the window, frowning at the redhead. “Some people have no taste.”

“For fuck’s sake, you oversensitive buffoon,” Deb complained, her tone exasperated as she bustled toward the back of the diner. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it - just that it wasn’t my favourite.”

Fahad sniffed disdainfully. “ _Ash-e reshteh_ will prevent you from getting sick - far better than chicken soup ever could,” he asserted.

“It smells terrific,” Justin declared, attempting to avert a spat between the waitress and the cook. Fortunately, Deb’s attention was diverted by a table full of dykes decked out in motorcycle leathers, and she bustled over to take their orders. The teen lifted a spoonful to his lips, startled when he crunched down on something that tasted like… “Spinach?” he inquired in surprise. He chewed some more. “Something else, too, but I can’t tell what.”

“You’re right about the spinach. The other leafy green is beet leaves,” the chef identified the foreign substance. “There’s fried onions in there too.”

The teenager slowly chewed another spoonful.

“Do you like it?” Fahad asked, looking a little anxious.

“I do,” Justin confirmed, licking his lips to catch a stray droplet. “What did you use for flavouring?”

The cook beamed at him. “Mint oil and _kashk_ , a fermented whey product,” he elaborated. “It’s sort of a sour yogurt. Both of those are popular in Middle Eastern cuisine.”

“Tonight’s special?” Justin wondered.

“Yeah,” Fahad corroborated. “I just needed a second, _discriminating_ opinion before adding it to the chalkboard.”

Justin chuckled at the on-again, off-again ‘friendly’ rivalry between Debbie and Fahad. It had apparently been going on for years, each of them claiming to be the better cook and trying to one-up the other with various concoctions.

Nodding toward the table where Deb was jotting down the dykes’ orders, Fahad quietly proposed with an evil smile, “I was thinking we could have a bit of fun with the mama’s boy tonight. After the hullabaloo he made about the _buggy rice_ …”

Oh, fuck. Justin began giggling uncontrollably. The muppet was bound to pitch a fit. “I’m in,” he agreed, exchanging a high five with the chef.

“What’re you boys up to?” the redheaded waitress inquired suspiciously as she delivered the lesbians’ orders to the pass-through.

“Just appreciating all the facets of Fahad’s _Ash-e reshteh_ ,” the blond teen replied innocently.

“Don’t go batting your baby blues at me, Kiddo,” Debbie chided, sharking a red-taloned index finger at Justin. “That ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ look doesn’t fool me. You’re up to something.”

“Yeah,” Fahad interjected sardonically, “the lad’s eating - and _relishing_ \- my bean soup.”

Her arms akimbo, Debbie claimed, “It’s not got a touch on my Italian bean soup with kale. _That’s_ tasty. And the broth isn’t an odd brown colour that looks like sh-”

Holy cow, Justin mused. Debs and Fahad looked like two prizefighters squaring off.

“I dare you,” Fahad growled when the waitress abruptly cut off the insult mid-word. “Just say it.”

Her jaw still jutting forward pugnaciously, the redhead allowed, “Uh, no, your ‘ashy’ soup isn’t that bad.”

“Faint praise,” the Iranian chef snarled.

“Erm,” Justin daringly intervened, hoping they wouldn’t turn on him, “maybe you could have a cook-off at the diner sometime? I mean you’re both great cooks, so the customers would be bound to flock in, right?”

“You know, Sunshine,” Debbie mused, “I rather like that notion. But how would we determine the winner?”

“Especially since I don’t trust you not to pack the place with your cronies from the Bloomfield neighbourhood,” Fahad challenged.

“Oh, please,” Deb pooh-poohed the notion. “Like those uptight, old school Italians would be caught dead on Liberty Avenue.”

“The customers would try both, and then they could vote for either one, or for both if they like them equally well.” Justin proposed.

“What if it’s a tie?” Fahad wondered, scratching at the dark stubble on his chin. “Not that I think it will be, mind you. My ash-e reshteh is nonpareil.”

“Well, maybe it could be turned into, like, a series of contests,” Justin suggested. “For customers who are interested, maybe you could even teach them how to make some of your favourite ethnic dishes. I know I’d want to learn.” the lad waxed enthusiastic.

“I still don’t see how the winner would be determined,” Fahad said doubtfully.

“Ditto.” Debbie concurred, frowning at the teenager and waving one hand in the air. “Not that there’d be any need for a series, since my bean soup would win hands down.

Christ, Justin thought, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. They were like two kindergarteners arguing over who’d made the best mud pie. Flushing a little as he recalled actually having that argument with Daphne once, he diplomatically asked, “Does one of you have to win? I mean, if the customers rave about your dishes, which they’re bound to do” - a little heavy-handed flattery couldn’t hurt, Justin decided, as he saw from the glint in the protagonists’ eyes that they were intrigued - “couldn’t you agree that you’re both wicked good cooks?”

“Well, I suppose,” Fahad semi-graciously conceded, smiling a little at the redhead. “You are a dab hand at Italian cookery, Deb. You’d be hard to beat.”

“I, um, I didn’t mean what I said, you know,” the redhead mumbled, looking quite abashed, “about, uh, your bean soup.”

Thank fuck, Justin thought. Crisis averted. He wondered if something was wrong with Debbie; she wasn’t normally belligerent, at least not without due cause, and an innocuous bean soup shouldn’t have set her off like this.

As if he’d read the teen’s mind, Fahad observed kindly, “You seem a bit out of sorts today, Debs. Is everything okay?”

The waitress glanced around to make sure no one could overhear, looking unaccountably flustered, before leaning closer to the two men and imparting, “I’m, uh, going on a date tonight, and I’ve got no idea what to wear. I haven’t been on a date in decades!” she wailed, her voice escalating on the final words so that everyone in the diner heard her.

Justin punched a fist in the air, and whooped, “Go, Carl!”

“Ssh! Sunshine!” Deb remonstrated. “I don’t want everyone to know.”

“You mean outside of a ten-block radius of the diner?” Fahad teased. “You just announced that you haven’t been on a date since, what, the seventies?”

“More like the sixties,” the redhead sighed. “Fuck, I don’t think I even have a dress that fits me any more.”

“You can borrow my motorcycle duds,” one of the biker chicks shouted.

“Thanks, honey.” Debbie laughed ruefully. “But I’d be lucky to get one arm into the jacket, much less my whole torso. And the trousers are a lost cause entirely.”

“I could ask Big Bertha,” the dyke amended her offer. “I’m sure her gear would fit you. You’d look right classy.”

Justin grinned as he saw how tempted his mum looked. Debs must have been one wild teenager, he surmised.

“Perhaps another time,” the waitress declined the proffered leathers. Slumping into a chair at the table nearest the kitchen window, Debbie sighed disconsolately. “I’m gonna look like a total frump. We should’ve just waited for the bowling tournament - then I’d know what to wear. A bit of privacy sounded good too, rather than having our wisecracking ‘family’ weighing in with their two cents. Now I wish we hadn’t been in such a hurry; he’ll never ask me out again.”

“Maybe your date would prefer that you wear nothing at all,” Justin blurted, flushing beet red as the words came out of his mouth. Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that. Maybe heteros didn’t fuck on the first date. And now he had an image stuck in his head that definitely did not belong there. Parental units and sex. Gross.

Debbie’s jaw dropped and she gaped at the teen in shock for a few seconds, but then she slapped the palm of one hand against a polyester-clad thigh and started cackling. “Fuck, Sunshine,” she guffawed, “I don’t put out until _after_ I’ve been wined and dined, at least not on the first date.”

Fahad smacked his lips in disgust. “I didn’t need to know that,” he muttered. Justin found himself in agreement with the cook.

“Maybe you should leave now, so you have plenty of time to get ready?” the blond then suggested. “I bet Vic would be happy to help you assemble the right outfit.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Sunshine.” Debbie concluded after mulling it over for a moment. “Vic was a sharp dresser in his day, maybe even more so than Brian.”

“So… scat.” Justin playfully teased, snapping the dish towel he was holding at Deb.

“No stealing my moves, Kiddo!” Debbie joked as she took off her apron and handed it to Justin.

“That’s such a unique gesture.” Fahad chuckled. “Off with you, Debbie. The lad and I have it under control.”

“Don’t think you’ll succeed in convincing everyone that your ‘ashy bean soup’ is the best thing ever in my absence,” the redhead deadpanned as she donned her coat. Her mien was so solemn that Justin couldn’t decide whether or not she was still pissed off.

“Jesus,” Fahad muttered as Deb pushed open the door and hurried down the sidewalk toward her house, “I hope she gets laid tonight. That’s bound to put her in a better humour.”

Even as he nodded in agreement, Justin grimaced. Damn Fahad for putting _those_ images back at the forefront of his mind. Fortunately, Emmett pushed open the door to the eatery at that moment, calling out “Baby!” in a loud voice and distracting him from thoughts of hetero sex between parental figures.

“Hey up,” he greeted his flamboyant friend. “Have you abandoned the customers at Torso to the tender mercies of your coworker, the one you complained likes to combine plaid with leather?”

“If they don’t have the sense to know that’s a disaster in the making,” Em waved a hand in dismissal, “they’ll soon learn better.” He slid into the booth that the gang favoured and intimated, “We have something far more important to discuss than fashion un-forward fags.”

“We do?” Justin asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he slid in opposite his friend. The dykes’ food wasn’t ready yet, so he figured he could take a moment to chat.

“Yes, Sweetie, our shopping campaign!” Emmett enthused. “You told me you were getting paid today, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Justin grinned back at his friend. “I’ve already deposited my cheques - stopped at the bank on my way to the diner.”

“Cheques?”

“Yeah. Smythe gave me a choice as to when I wanted to be paid for the go-go dancing, so I chose the fifth. I picked up that cheque yesterday and deposited it with the one from the diner this afternoon.” Justin rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. Slowly but surely, he was filling his bank account.

“Then it’s time to get you some nice underwear,” Emmett reminded him. “Something that showcases your assets properly.”

“Erm, I don’t know if that’s what I should spend the money on,” Justin waffled. Given how desperately he needed a new coat, gloves, and shoes, he’d been having second thoughts about using the small sum he’d set aside from his pay for underwear - even if he was heartily sick of his baggy white briefs.

“Honey,” Em reached out and placed a hand across Justin’s, stilling his nervously drumming fingers. “There is _nothing_ more essential than form-fitting underwear, especially for a go-go boy. Just wait and see. Your tips will go up exponentially once the horny fags at Babylon get a proper gander at your package.”

It did make sense, the teenager supposed, to invest in underwear before anything else, especially if it would net him more money. He let out a sigh as he realised he only had two more days before he’d again be atop the bar, dancing his ass off. He still felt worn out from the previous weekend; this go-go gig was depleting his energy a lot faster than he could have anticipated. He wasn’t ready to give it up, though, considering how fast he was adding funds to his coffers, especially since hadn’t yet earned any money freelancing for Brian.

“Is there a problem, Sweetie?” Em inquired gently, pulling Justin out of his brown study.

“Uh,” the blond floundered for a believable excuse, “I just have to be super careful with my money, you know? I really want to go to PIFA - if I’m accepted - but it’ll be bloody expensive, even if I get a partial merit scholarship. There’s no way I’ll be eligible for any other kind of financial aid, considering my dad’s income. Craig’s paying for St James and claiming me on his taxes, so the admissions board won’t consider me to be an independent wage earner. Heck,” he continued despondently, “I’ve never even filed my own taxes.”

“I know it sucks,” Emmett commiserated. “I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen, graduate from high school, and shake off the Hazelhurst dirt. But, Baby, you’re almost eighteen; you’ll graduate from St James in less than a year; you have a place to live; and in contrast to little old moi at your age” - Emmett bedazzled the forlorn teenager with his famous gap-toothed smile - “you’re already living in the big city and have a circle of friends, of which _I_ am the most fabulous. Right?”

Justin had started giggling helplessly partway through the southern man’s speech and was now in a much better mood. He felt kind of bad about feeding Em the lie about why he needed to save money, but he didn’t want to take the chance that anyone else would find out about this plans to repay Brian.

“That’s the spirit!” Emmett encouraged his young friend, giving him another blinding smile. “Skimpy, tight, new briefs will make everything better. Don’t worry about the cost, okay? A real queen can always ferret out the sales and knows how to dicker for the best price.”

“Um, do you like second-hand stores?” Justin inquired hopefully.

“Honey, I’ve made some of my best finds in that kind of shop,” the southern belle proclaimed. “My lavender boa came from a hole in the wall that, sadly, closed last year.”

“Do you remember Marvella from the garage sale?”

Em frowned in puzzlement. “There were lots of people there, Baby. Which one was Marvella?”

“The one who snitched one of your cranberry muffins.” the teen stated. Since that didn’t lessen the southerner’s confusion, Justin clarified, “The one you ‘wrestled’ for that old Twister game.”

“Oh, the nattily dressed drag queen!” Emmett now easily identified the woman in question. “We were never properly introduced, you know; I had no idea her name was Marvella.”

When the blond opened his mouth to explain that Marvella owned a consignment shop, Em held up a hand in a signal to stop. “Just a moment, Baby. That Twister game is an original. You’re lucky I rescued it.”

“Ehm, okay,” Justin allowed. He didn’t get why his friend was so excited about the game, but whatever. “Anyway,” he returned to the topic of second-hand stores, “Marvella owns a shop called Second Hand Job. I’ve-”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, Baby?” Emmett asked, flapping a hand at Justin. “I’ve been meaning to check out that darling shop ever since it opened, just over a month ago if I’m not mistaken.”

The teenager started laughing at the eager way Em had overridden what he was going to say.

“Oopsie! Did I interrupt?” his friend asked, laughing along with Justin. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but I really am keen to check out that store. I just _adore_ the striped awning, and that name is so clever. That’s exactly what I’d call my shop, if I actually owned one, that is.”

“I’d like to check it out when we go shopping,” the blond managed to choke out through another burst of laughter.

“But, of course!” the tall queen immediately agreed. “We can stretch our dollars even further there. No second-hand undies though, okay?”

“Ew.” Justin scrunched up his nose in disgust. “I’d never.”

“Praise Jesus.” Emmett sat back with a sigh of relief. “I mean, new in the package would be one thing, but even then you couldn’t be sure someone hadn’t, um, tampered with them.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Justin assured him.

Apparently satisfied that his young friend wouldn’t go _that_ far in his quest to save money, the older man remarked, “It’s a shame Marvella wasn’t there when we performed _In the Gay-rage_.”

“She would’ve gotten a bang out of it.” Justin assented. “Heck, she’d probably have shown up all of us, kicking up her heels in those stilettos.”

“Speaking of dancing in high heels…” Em murmured.

Uh-oh, Justin mused. He had the feeling he’d just stumbled into a trap. Maybe if he didn’t say anything, Emmett would drop the subject?

No such luck. “You know the diner always has a big bash on Christmas Day, right?”

How could he not know? the teen wondered. The posters had already been plastered up and down Liberty Avenue for a week. “Hmm,” he hmmed non-committally.

The flamboyant man clapped his hands together in excitement. “That would be just the right occasion for us to reprise _In the Gay-rage_ , don’t you think? Only this time, all of us would wear spike heels.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. There was no way he’d get out of this, but Justin gave it a try anyway. “Em,” he protested, “I could barely manoeuvre in low heels. Not only would I break a leg if I wore spike heels, I’d probably poke out someone’s eye. They’re a weapon of mass destruction!”

“Stilettos can be dangerous,” the southern queen acknowledged, “but only if you don’t know how to wear them. And with our shapely, muscled legs? Fags will be lined up outside the door begging us to fuck them.”

“I thought you preferred to be fu-”

“What’re you ladies gossiping about?” a smooth baritone cut in. An eyebrow hiked inquisitively, Brian slid in next to Justin and slung an arm around his shoulders.

“Oh, you know,” Emmett replied airily. “Shopping. Dancing. Fucking. All the things that give you a hard-on, Bri.”

The teenager glared at the queen in irritation. Brian was bound to think they’d been talking about him, dammit. Sure enough, the smug grin the brunet conferred on him confirmed Justin’s supposition. “Budge over,” he hissed. “I need to get back to work.”

“You have to pay a toll,” Brian teased.

What the fuck? He and his ex were barely on speaking terms, unless it concerned the adman’s new agency. Plus, he was still royally pissed about the doppelgänger Brian had hired for a fuck.

“All it’ll take is one kiss,” Brian vouched.

The blond stared at his former lover in shock. Then, his eyes glinting with mischief, he leaned over to peck the brunet on the cheek.

“Uh-uh, Sunshine. It has to be on the lips,” Brian elaborated, leaning away from the lad. “And it has to be a real kiss, not just a brush of your lips.”

“Tongue?” Emmett interjected eagerly.

As Justin was about to growl a resounding no, the bell dinged at the kitchen window and Fahad shouted, “Orders are up!”

“You wouldn’t want the food to get cold, would you, Sunshine?” Brian mocked. “It’d affect your tips, and since you’ve become such an avaricious little-”

Justin shut his ex up by mashing his lips against the brunet’s. When the man’s lips parted, he slipped his tongue inside after all, tangling it with Brian’s before withdrawing long seconds later, nipping at his lower lip as he removed his mouth with an audible pop.

Brian looked at him through lust-glazed eyes and tried to reel him in for another kiss.

“One kiss,” the blond reminded his ex. “Now move so I can get to work.”

Hadn’t the kiss meant anything to the boy? the dazed brunet wondered as he reluctantly got out of the booth.

“Saturday afternoon?” he vaguely heard Emmett call out as Justin trotted toward the kitchen pass-through without a backward glance.

“Sure,” the brat tossed in their direction as he began ferrying the full plates to a table of dykes.

“Fuck, Bri,” Emmett exclaimed, fanning himself with one hand as they watched the teenager bustle around the diner, “that kiss was flaming hot.”

For one of us, anyroad, Brian thought a bit forlornly. Since his impromptu, playful effort hadn’t worked, he’d have to try another method to garner Justin’s attention. His normal confidence returning despite the minor setback, he was certain he’d come up with something while he ate. If he could just get the little twat to talk to him, he’d know what to do to get Justin over his mad - and into his bed.

“Brian! You’re here!” An excited voice intruded on his thoughts. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been hiding?”

Christ. He wasn’t really in the mood to deal with his childhood friend, but it wasn’t like he had much choice as Michael squeezed into the booth next to him. Rather than have Mikey end up in his lap, he slid over toward the window, only to end up pressed against the wall as Dr Dave settled in next to his boyfriend. “Hey, Mikey,” Brian greeted his friend, resigned to his fate. He stretched his right arm out along the smaller man’s shoulders, intending to give him a sideways hug, but ended up recoiling when the doc’s arm landed atop his, David’s fingers caressing his arm.

“What the fuck?” the equally appalled chiropractor yelled, apparently forgetting his resolution to avoid cursing.

Michael, evidently not realising that both men had their arms around his shoulders, looked at his best friend in concern. “Have you put on weight, Brian? Your arm feels really heavy.”

So much for the constant assurance that he’d always be young and beautiful, Brian mused wryly. Maybe he’d better do some of those bicep curls at the gym tomorrow, just to make sure his arms weren’t getting flabby. Having already removed his arm - he had no desire to be up close and personal with David - he explained, “It’s your boyfriend’s arm that weighs a ton.”

“Oh,” Michael breathed with a peculiar look on his face. Then, looking from Brian to David and back, he sputtered, “I could’ve sworn- I mean, you always…” Trailing off, he smacked his lips in frustration. “I’m hungry, where’s that blond Boy Wonder?” he cried loudly.

“Right here,” Justin remarked from beside the table, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Hey, David. Ted.”

“When did you get here?” Michael blinked at Ted in confusion.

“If you mean me,” Emmett snarked, “I’ve been here all along. You really should have that tunnel vision checked out, Sweetie.”

Michael looked affronted. “I saw you, Emmett,” he claimed. “I said ‘hi’.”

The tall queen huffed quietly. “Not really, you didn’t. You said, ‘Briaaan! You’re here!’” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

“Obviously, you were included in the ‘you’re here,’” Michael insisted.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Emmett rolled his eyes. “You know what, forget I said anything. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

Watching the conversation like a tennis match, Justin blinked at the two men. He felt like he was back in kindergarten - for the second time that day. “Ehm,” he cleared his throat. “You wanted food?” he interrupted hesitantly.

“My usual.” Michael muttered, sending a murderous glare at Emmett.

“Which deep-fried vegetable do you want the double cheeseburger with - potatoes or onions?” Justin questioned.

The blond barely refrained from laughing as he watched the gerbils scurry around in Michael’s brain.

“Both!” Michael finally shouted. “My Honeybun says there’s hardly enough of me to hold onto, so I need to fill out.”

Justin gagged.

“Are you okay?” Dr Dave asked, a look of concern on his face.

Fearing the chiropractor might stand up and thump him on the back, the blond lad backed away a couple of steps. “I’m good,” he gasped, his nausea almost turning into a gust of laughter as he briefly met Brian’s amused eyes. “So, uh, what’s everyone else want?”

“You didn’t ask what I want to drink,” Michael interjected.

“You said your ‘usual,’” Justin patiently reminded him. “A large Coke, right?”

For a moment, his mouth hanging open, it looked as if the short brunet was going to be truly adventurous and change his soda of choice, but then he snapped his mouth shut and settled back on the banquette. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

After the rest of them had placed their orders, all of them opting for less caloric meals than Michael’s, Brian again watched the blond boy trot toward the kitchen window, almost hypnotised by the swaying of the boy’s derriere.

“What I wouldn’t give to possess that bubble butt,” Emmett commented wistfully.

“Not everyone can be as blessed as Justin and my Tootsie Roll,” Dr Dave concurred, his gaze also avidly locked on the teenager as he flitted around the diner.

Brian growled, “Mine,” immediately succumbing to a coughing fit in the hope of disguising what he’d said. With any luck, his friends would think he was mocking David, instead of being possessive toward Justin.

Michael’s eyes opened wide and he latched onto Brian’s arm tightly, “I’m your-”

“You’re cutting off your best friend’s circulation,” came Ted’s timely intervention.

If anything the pressure on Brian’s biceps increased.

“Did you hear me, Michael?” Ted barked. “Let go!”

“I, uh, I thought Brian was going to choke to death,” Michael excused his behaviour as he finally released his hold on his bestie’s arm.

The studly brunet rubbed at the spot, certain he’d discover bruises underneath his long-sleeved t-shirt later on. He’d never have guessed the more slightly-built man had that strong a grip and wasn’t entirely sure what had set Michael off… unless he’d thought Brian’s inadvertent growl was meant for him? Fuck, please don’t let that be the case, he sent out a mental plea.

“Huh. I didn’t know there was an alternate way to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre,” Emmett wisecracked.

Dr Dave’s voice overrode the irritated queen’s as he praised, “That was very sweet of you, Snookums, to try and help your friend.”

At least he and the doc were no longer at loggerheads, Brian reflected. Both of them had the same goal - for Michael to be happy with the good doctor. If he had to listen to them spout nauseating pet names at each other for that to happen, so be it. He’d suffer in silence, well mostly, he thought, stifling a laugh at the twin looks of horror on Ted and Em’s faces.

“Yes, Snook-” Emmett began in a derisive tone, when the clatter of silverware against their table silenced him.

“Oops, sorry about that,” Justin excused the noise with a bright smile.

Brian had to suppress another laugh at the way the boy had derailed Em’s spite.

After setting their drinks and then soup spoons in front of everyone - causing looks of consternation from around the table since none of them had ordered soup - the blond teen placed a steaming bowl containing a thick, aromatic liquid in front of each of them.

“What the fuck is that?” Michael immediately kvetched, pushing his bowl toward the centre of the table before crossing his arms petulantly in front of his chest. “I didn’t order this slop!”

“The _ash-e reshteh_ is on the house,” the teenager explained. “We’re trying out some new dishes and are polling the customers to see what they think.”

“I don’t need to taste it to give you my opinion,” Michael insisted, his lower lip jutting out ominously. “The colour’s totally gross - it looks like vom.”

“What’s wrong with the colour?” Ted asked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “That’s a pretty normal shade for a broth if you ask me. And it smells heavenly.”

Without waiting for the others, Em dived in, slurping down one spoonful and then another. “It’s delish!” he exclaimed, pleasure written across his face. “You’ve got to try it, Sweetie,” he encouraged Michael, his irritation with his friend seemingly forgotten.

“It _is_ good,” David seconded Emmett’s judgement. “What did you say it’s called?”

“Ash-e reshteh,” Justin enunciated slowly, pronouncing the ‘teh’ at the end like ‘the’. “It’s a thick Persian soup with a bean and noodle base.”

“You really should try it, Cupcake,” Dr Dave coaxed his boyfriend.

Across the table from Brian, Ted lowered a spoonful of the soup back into his bowl then curled the fingers of his other hand into a loose fist, motioning toward his slightly open mouth with his thumb.

Yeah. Brian nodded his agreement about the gag-worthiness of the endearments, his willingness to tolerate the cutesy pet names rapidly dwindling.

“I don’t want to!” Michael nearly shouted his disagreement with the doc’s suggestion.

“C’mon, my little Cutie Patootie,” David urged in a sugary voice.

Pausing with his spoon midway to his mouth - he’d spew if he tried to swallow right then - the adman wished he had a pair of earplugs so he could block out the excruciatingly awful names.

“Remember your promise to expand your culinary horizons beyond hamburger and pasta.” Dr Dave continued.

“I was thinking of, like, pork… or chicken!” Michael protested.

Brian heard a giggle from the end of the table but didn’t dare look up since his mouth was currently full of soup. Wow! The others were right; it really was tasty. He’d gladly consume Mikey’s bowl if his friend continued to reject it. Glancing over at Emmett and Theodore, both of whom were slurping down the soup as fast as possible, he realised he might have a fight on his hands...

Just then, Mikey conceded with a drawn-out sigh, “Okay, I’ll try it.” He dished up an extremely shallow spoonful, tentatively raised it to his lips, and sucked it in. His face screwing up in an expression of disgust, he spit the liquid back into the bowl, disparaging, “That ‘ashy rest of curds and whey’ is way bad!”

The brunet stud let out a hearty sigh of his own. No one was going to enjoy a second bowl of the soup now it had Michael’s genetic material in it. “Great,” he grumbled. “ _Now_ it does look like regurgitated baby food, Mikey.”

Michael yelled, “Bring me my burger now, Boy Wonder! And another glass of Coke to wash away the minging taste!”

The blond waiter merely nodded in acknowledgement, rushing into the kitchen, where he let loose the laughter he’d been repressing.

“Ashy curds and whey?” Fahad also fell about as Justin regaled him with the tale.

“I know, right?” the lad giggled. “I doubt he even knows what curds and whey are.”

“Little Miss Muffet sitting on _his_ tuffet,” the cook snickered, “eating cottage cheese.”

“To be fair, Michael probably doesn’t like cottage cheese,” the blond remarked, “regardless of whether he has a clue how it’s formed.”

“True,” Fahad chuckled. A sly look entering his eyes, the chef said, “Listen, before you take out the meals the boys ordered, you should know that I doctored Michael’s burger a little.”

“Doctored how?” Justin inquired. Was he going to have to dodge boked burger? he worried.

“I mixed the ground meat together with a bit of the broth from the soup,” Fahad clarified. “I’m betting the little pipsqueak will love it. Next time - tomorrow, that is - he won’t understand why his burger is so bland.”

“You won’t be the one who has to field his complaints, you know,” the blond teenager objected.

“Yeah, but think of the satisfaction you’ll get from knowing Michael ate ‘ashy curds and whey’ - and loved it,” the cook said, his smile broadening.

Justin was still giggling as he returned to the main room, clearing away the dishes from a few tables before nearing the booth the gang occupied. His ears pricked up when he became aware that the five men were discussing the burglary at the loft.

Good, Brian thought, satisfied that the teenager was listening in as he wiped down the table in the neighbouring booth - a surface that hadn’t been dirty to start with.

Picking up effortlessly on Brian’s cue, Ted raised his voice a little as he asked, “Have you found out anything about like crimes?”

“Not really,” the adman replied, also speaking louder than usual. “Just enough to freak out a little when I learned how much violence occurs during break-ins. It’s apparently fucking dangerous to be at home.”

“Too bad the little shit wasn’t in the loft during the burglary,” Michael sniped.

“How can you say that!” Emmett gasped. “Baby could have been killed.”

“At least if Boy Wonder were gone, there’d be a decent fucking waiter in this joint,” the short brunet groused.

That was a fairly mild complaint from his childhood friend, Brian supposed. Michael had a tendency to turn into a bitch when he was hungry.

“Justin seems like a nice boy, Honeybun,” Dr Dave commented a bit condescendingly, attempting to soothe his hangry boyfriend. “You should remember he’s only a teenager - boys that age aren’t the most reliable, especially when they’re being driven by their hormones.”

“And that makes teenagers different from older gay men how?” Ted quipped.

“It wasn’t so bad having the boy around.” Brian granted, steering the conversation back to the burglary. “I reckon it’s a good thing he wasn’t home when it happened.” He peered at Justin, who was circling the same spot over and over again with a wet rag. Christ, he hoped the lad still knew how to interpret Kinney-speak.

The blond, however, didn’t even look up from his useless cleaning. Theodore, thank fuck, tried again, “And the police are still investigating?”

Brian hmmed in agreement. “Yes. I got the feeling the burglary is a part of some sort of bigger case. Horvath asked me to look at some CCTV photos and such,” he mentioned vaguely. “It might have been a professional job.”

Michael’s face screwed up in a pinched look. “I seriously doubt that,” he jeered.

Emmett raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that your professional opinion, Detective Novotny?” he asked snappily.

The man shrugged. “I just think the blond brat doesn’t have enough money to hire - like - actual burglars. They were probably just some of his friends from school.”

Everyone stared at him; even Justin stopped pretending to wipe the now obsessively cleaned table and just gaped at the back of Michael’s head - stunned. “What a _brainstorm_ ,” the teenager ridiculed, moving over to their table so he could look Michael in the eye. “You seem to forget, Novotny, that I’m not exactly swimming in friends at St James. Not that it makes any sense that I would have rooked those imaginary friends into invading my home in any case. But, please, why don’t you go present your theory to Detectives Horvath and Wen - I’m sure they could use a good laugh.”

With that sally, Justin stomped off to the kitchen, leaving Michael to wail, “Wait! What about my hamburger?”

Shit. Brian berated himself - barely resisting the urge to strangle his childhood buddy - he should’ve said something in Justin’s defense, especially since the lad wasn’t entirely able to disguise the hurt Michael’s accusation had engendered. But the blond boy had been so quick to leave the scene that Brian was pretty much still sitting there with his mouth open. “Jesus, Mikey,” he castigated the man sitting next to him, “you can’t be so naive as to believe that Justin instigated the burglary. At the most, he left the loft unlocked-”

“But, Brian!” Michael cut in, turning his puppy-dog eyes on his friend, “I’m just looking out for you. That’s what a best friend does! I mean, even after you took him in - gave him a place to live - he betrayed you by letting robbers access your loft. You shouldn’t give the ungrateful little shit the time of day!”

“Honeybun,” Dr Dave tried to rein in his boyfriend as he watched Brian’s countenance darken, “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? Justin likely left Brian’s loft unsecured in a moment of inattentiveness. You have to remember that he’s really young, not an experienced, mature man like you.”

Despite how pissed off he was at Michael, that assessment of him almost sent Brian into a paroxysm of laughter. Loud coughing from the other side of the booth alerted him Ted and Emmett were having a similar reaction.

“You trust Brian, right?” Dr Dave asked his beau.

“Of course!” Michael’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.

“Then you should accept that he probably has good reason for changing his mind about whether Justin was responsible for the robbery.” David reasoned in a gentle voice.

“No,” Michael insisted. “Brian’s too” - he visibly searched for the right word - “gullible.”

The adman heard Emmett snigger in a disbelieving tone, “Brian? Gullible?”

Also taken aback, Dr Dave eloquently responded, “Huh?”

“It’s the Boy Wonder’s lardass!” Michael cried out. “It has bad mojo! It blinds him to what a little shit the kid is.”

“It’s true Baby’s arse is magical,” Emmett giggle-snorted, “but he only uses his powers for good.”

“Get up,” Brian ordered Michael.

“You aren’t going after the mook, are you?” Michael inquired suspiciously.

“It’s Brian’s business, Honeybun,” Dr Dave reminded his boyfriend, sliding out of the booth and pulling Michael off the seat as well.

The brunet stud nodded in thanks - the doc was proving quite useful - and strode toward the kitchen. Only Fahad was in there, stirring a large pot on the cooker.

Next Brian tried the break room. No Justin. That’s when he noticed the door to the alley was ajar and, sure enough, there was the blond, threadbare jacket on, blowing smoke rings into the frosty air. “Hey,” Brian greeted him, “can I bum a cigarette?”

The teen didn’t look at him, but he removed a pack of Camels from his pocket and handed them to Brian. Tapping the pack against the palm of his hand, Brian extracted one, shivering as a blast of icy wind was funneled down the passageway. Fuck, he wished he could go back and grab his coat and gloves, but then he might lose his opportunity to talk with the lad. “Light?” he grunted.

Justin flicked his cheap, unbranded lighter, cupping his other hand around the flame until Brian’s cigarette was lit. After they’d smoked in silence for a minute, the boy asked curtly, “What do you want, Brian?”

“You’d probably hit me if I asked for another kiss, wouldn’t you?”

The lad stared at him, obviously surprised by his response. Brian couldn’t blame him; he hadn’t planned to say that.

“Do you really think I should work for you?” Justin questioned, sounding enervated and discouraged.

Where had that non sequitur come from? “I never do anything I don’t want to,” Brian reiterated one of his mantras, figuring that would reassure him.

Justin looked at him blankly for a moment before resuming, “Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s a great opportunity for an untested artist like me. I’m confident that I’d produce good work. But we’d be around each other all the time, Bri, and that might be too much of a strain for both of us, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think that,” Brian objected, concealing a satisfied smile at the way Justin had, apparently completely unaware, used the shortened version of his name. He hadn’t heard the lad call him Bri since the morning of the burglary. That - together with the hint that Justin was having a hard time resisting him - gave him hope that it wasn’t too late to entice the blond back to his bed.

“Why?”

Shaking off a vision of the lad in his bed - where he belonged - Brian retorted, “Why not? You’re a far better artist than any of the cretins I worked with at Ryder; I don’t have to repeat myself ad nauseum for you to understand a concept; and, together, we’ll make an unbeatable team.”

“And what happens when you find another blond artist?” Justin wondered cynically. “Will you exchange him for me?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the bewildered adman asked.

“On Saturday afternoon,” Justin related, “I started thinking I might have overreacted a tad to your invitation the previous day,”

Brian’s heart leapt - well, one part of his anatomy did anyroad. Did that mean-

“...not that I was going to take you up on it,”

Dammit. Along with something deflating, it felt like his heart had plummeted down to his stomach. Must be a touch of acid reflux, he decided.

“...since I refuse to be just a convenient fuck.” Justin concluded.

Brian scowled, tempted to say he’d heard the boy loud and clear on Saturday, but that would be counterproductive to getting what he wanted. Maybe he hadn’t made it clear that he was open to more than a one-off?

“When I calmed down a little, though, I remembered an invitation for an overnight fuck is tantamount to confessing you care about me. You _never_ ask a trick to stay the whole night; the only reason you’ve ever awakened to anyone besides me in your bed was because you were too stoned and drunk to kick them out.”

Brian scuffed his feet against the asphalt and looked anywhere except at Justin.

“So I was sitting there on the couch in Deb’s living room, wondering how I could get you to man up,”

The brunet shot him an affronted look, but Justin took no notice.

“...when Michael plonked down across from me and began crowing about how I was on the outs.”

Even though the brunet had no clue how Michael could have bollocksed things up, he _was_ going to strangle the man if he’d cost him the fuck of a lifetime.

“I really didn’t give a shit when he kept nattering on about some blond trick you’d drilled. You’ve always been an equal opportunity fucker,” Justin shrugged, “even if your preferred trick is a Kinney clone.”

Brian smirked at the pun on _fucker_ ; even though Justin didn’t let on, the brunet was certain it had been deliberate. He couldn’t figure out where Justin was going with this tale, though. Why would he have let Michael rile him up over something that must’ve happened ages ago?

The blond turned his head to look directly at Brian, his blue eyes icing over, his voice bitter. “It was when Michael conveyed that the trick was practically a dead ringer for me and that he’d watched you welcome him into the loft on Friday night that I accepted I was wrong, that I don’t mean anything to you - not when I’m apparently interchangeable with any other blond.”

Well, shit. Bloody Mikey.

“Justin,” Brian forced out of his clenched throat, “listen. It was just a fuck - with a guy from an escort service, for Christ’s sake. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It was just happenstance that the service sent over a guy who looks like me?” Justin snorted in disbelief. “Michael said he thought at first that it _was_ me.”

Double shit. How the fuck had Mikey seen him welcome the escort anyway? He had seen neither hide nor hair of his so-called best friend that night.

“Well, I suppose he might’ve looked a bit-” Brian cut himself off, noticing Justin’s skeptical look. “Right,” he sighed, deciding to cut the bullshit, “so I might’ve been in a bit of a strife after you - uh - knocked me back.” He paused, hoping he wouldn’t have to continue talking and that Justin would just somehow understand what he meant to say.

Unfortunately, the lad promptly dashed his hopes. “What the fuck does that mean? That you wanted to take out your frustrations on an imitation me?”

“Kind of,” Brian acknowledged. “Well, not really,” he blew out an aggravated breath. Why the fuck was talking suddenly so hard? He was normally brilliant at sweet talking someone into accepting his pitch.

“Well that explains everything” Justin muttered, pausing before tacking on a pointed, “Not.”

“I didn’t kiss the guy, or even fondle him,” Brian blurted out, desperate to make Justin understand. “I just wanted to get off, dammit.”

“So why request someone who looks like me?” the lad inquired, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Because I wanted _you_!” the brunet admitted, stringing his words together, so they were barely understandable. He rushed on, “And I ended up with anything but you. That escort was one of the worst lays I’ve ever had.”

“You got off though, I bet.” Justin noted acerbically. “That’s the same thing that would’ve happened if I’d taken you up on your offer.”

Brian snorted bitterly. “Yeah, right. Like anything the two of us had could be compared to what that manky, loose-arsed blond provided.”

And wow, that was basically a love admission coming from Brian. Justin wasn’t quite ready to let his ex off the hook, however. Now that a few days had passed since the escort incident, he wasn’t as steamed up about it - even kind of flattered in a weird way - but... “What if he had a tight arse?” he snarked. “Would you have been happy then?”

“For fuck’s sake!” exploded out of Brian. “I just said it was _you_ that I wanted. I really wouldn’t mind having you over now and then, capisci?”

“You wouldn’t mind having me over,” Justin repeated, his excitement at Brian’s almost declaration of love dimming. “That’s the best you can do? You’d better tell me flat out what you want. Have some balls, Brian!”

“Christ! I’m sorry I kicked you out, okay?”

Wow. Justin hadn’t expected to hear that. He stared at his former lover, unsure how to respond. There was a time he would have flown into Brian’s arms and started kissing him madly. But now… now he kind of liked being independent and having responsibility for himself.

“So, uh,” Brian asked hesitantly, “maybe you could come over tonight?”

Fuck. The guy looked so fucking _adorable_ \- not that Justin would ever say that out loud. The timing just didn’t feel right, though. “Not tonight,” he murmured, grazing Brian’s arm briefly as if to soften the blow. “I have school tomorrow and I need to study” - the studying part wasn’t really true, but he figured it would make the rejection more palatable - “and that won’t happen if I’m with you.”

Brian couldn’t deny he was disappointed, but he’d never want to interfere with the lad’s studies. “Another night?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too needy.

“We’ll see,” Justin replied with a soft smile. Honestly, he wasn’t quite sure if starting up with Brian again was an entirely good idea. They had just started tolerating each other after all; it wouldn’t do to screw it up right away by adding sex into their newfound friendship.

“Now you’re the one being cryptic,” Brian accused, narrowing his eyes at the blond.

“I just think maybe we should take it slow, after everything that’s happened,” Justin stated quietly. “Sure, we had fun together and the fucking was out of this world good, but it seems like we never really got to know each other as, like, friends, you know?”

Brian had to bite his lip so he wouldn’t say something stupid about not fucking his friends. If only he wasn’t so desperately craving the feel of Justin’s body against his, he might even agree with the lad, a little anyhow. “Okay,” he heaved out on a deep sigh. “But while we’re ‘getting to know each other’” - fuck, he sounded like a lezzie - “I’d rather not see _Bobby_ around.”

Justin couldn’t quite contain a giggle, both at Brian’s deliberate infantilization of _Bob_ and that he thought it was Eric’s name. “Listen, I only fucked the guy once, but I like him and we’re going to be friends. I don’t see how it can work out between you and me, Brian, if you can’t accept that.”

Brian was oddly proud of the way Justin was standing up for himself, even though he really didn’t want to see that Bob fucker ever again. The kiss between the two had looked far more than _friendly_ , but he knew better than to mention it.

The blond boy finished with, “Neither of us wants to place restrictions on the other, right?”

No _Bobs_ would do the trick, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen. “As long as you’re willing to work for me,” he allowed.

“I’d like that.” Justin gave him a bright smile, making Brian’s cock jump in his pants.

Christ, the brunet thought, it was going to be sheer torture being around the boy without being able to fuck him. On the other hand, it would provide multiple opportunities for him to persuade Justin into his bed, especially once he had him inside the loft. He’d just have to be subtle about it. “Are you free tomorrow night?” he asked, his mind spinning with ways to make the blond just as sexually frustrated as he was. “I need to get started on the Wertshafter account. Maybe if we bounce ideas off each other, we can figure out a way to make taxes sexy.”

“Sure, after my diner shift,” Justin readily agreed. “We can work at Deb’s kitchen table.”

That wasn’t the location he’d had in mind, but it would do… for now.

 

“Justin!” Fahad pushed open the door to the alley. “That little howler monkey is screaming for his meal. Could you deliver the burger to him before all of us go deaf?”

Bracing himself, Brian followed Justin into the diner. Not only was Mikey starving after taking only a small sip of the bean and noodle soup, he’d probably worked himself into a jealous fit - his ‘best friend’ out of his sight for a good twelve minutes with the much-despised blond.

His head began to throb as he neared the table, Michael’s “ _Briaaaan_ ” and the sulky cast of the man’s face warning him it was likely to be an unpleasant dinner. He was relieved when, instead of getting up, Dr Dave scooted over, pushing Michael toward the window, so that Brian could sit at the end of the banquette.

“Bu- but,” Michael spluttered, “I wanted to sit next to _Brian_.”

He was beginning to hate the sound of his own name, although at least Mikey hadn’t elongated it this time, adding extra syllables. As Brian rubbed his temples, a plastic container with _Bayer_ written in white lettering on a soothing blue background appeared in front of him. Next came clear glasses into which cold water was poured.

“You guys should each take a couple of aspirin,” Justin recommended as he placed a glass in front of each of the men. “The flu’s going around around, you know.”

Clever little devil, Brian mused gratefully, reaching for the bottle and twisting the cap. “Fuck,” he grouched when it didn’t come off.

“Those child-proof bottles are ridiculous,” Ted opined. “Adults can’t open them, but children usually have no problem.”

Brian noticed that Theodore was also eyeing the container of pain relievers anxiously, as if he also needed the relief they could provide.

“Here,” Justin offered, snagging the bottle, “let me.” He pressed down and twisted, easily removing the lid.

“Figures,” Michael scoffed. “He’s the only _child_ in here.”

The blond shook two of the tablets into the palm of Brian’s hand, the brunet immediately motioning with his free hand for another. No way would just two pills be enough to see him through the evening. Once he had three tablets  in his palm, he slugged them back, while Justin shook out pills for Ted, Emmett, and David.

“No,” Michael declined the aspirin when Justin held the container out toward him. “Just bring me my food. The onions will fight off any virus germs.”

“Honey,” Em shook his head at Michael, “onion only helps in a natural decongestant like fire cider.”

“Nuh-uh,” the stubborn brunet insisted. “It’s a cure-all. Ma told me.”

“Honeybun,” Dr Dave inquired, “are you talking about cutting the end off an onion, placing it on a plate, and leaving it out in whatever room in a house?”

“Yeah! Michael exclaimed. “That plus eating lots of onions works. I’m never sick.”

Nonplussed, the chiropractor merely stared at his boyfriend, who beamed back at him.

Watching as the blond walked over to the kitchen pass-through, his shoulders shaking with repressed laughter, the adman placed a mental bet that David was worrying about when cut onions would start appearing around his house.

“Michael,” Em began, “that’s an urb-”

“Ssh!” Theodore elbowed Em in the side, whispering, “If he believes the urban legend, let him be. Do you really want him to kvetch about onions all night long?”

Emmett closed his mouth with a snap.

Thank fuck, Brian thought as blessed quiet reigned for a few seconds, before Justin returned with their orders, sliding Michael’s in front of him first. Mikey didn’t wait for the other men to be served, immediately chomping into the burger, juice sliding down his chin as he chewed with his mouth open.

Everyone - even Dr Dave - looked away.

“Now that’s the way beef should taste,” Michael moaned, stuffing another bite into his mouth.

Justin’s lips twitched and then a muffled giggle escaped.

Goddammit, Brian recognized that smirk. If the brat was pulling a fast one on Mikey, Brian should be in the know. He wouldn’t at all mind a laugh at the little brunet’s expense.

Taking a break from the meat, Michael grabbed a handful of onion rings and stuffed them into his gob. “No u, she?” he proclaimed triumphantly.

Snorts of laughter came from around the table. “Given your predilection for onions,” Ted remarked drily, “can we safely assume that meant, ‘no flu, see’?”

Michael nodded. “Zhackly.”

As Dr Dave leaned closer to Michael, Brian feared for a moment that he was going to lick the spilled meat juice off of Michael’s chin but, fortunately, he just used his napkin to wipe up the mess.

As Justin inquired, “Anything else, guys?” Brian noted the lad looked a little pale and shaky. He’d undoubtfully been as nauseated as Brian by the almost horror of David- Brian quickly shut down that train of thought; it was just too gross to contemplate.

“Yeth,” Michael mumbled around his food.

Justin waited patiently.

Michael grabbed more onion rings and leaned across David, dumping the handful onto Brian’s plate and announcing proudly, “Now you won’t get sick either, Brian.”  

The adman grimaced as specks of food flew from Mikey’s mouth onto his cashmere jumper. Now he was going to have to take the sweater off before he could put on his Armani coat, or he’d have to do without his good winter overcoat until it, too, had been dry-cleaned.

“This past weekend when I didn’t see you at Woody’s or Babylon, I was worried you might be under the weather,” Michael claimed, a sly glint in his brown eyes. “I tried to call you but you didn’t answer. What - or should I say who - were you doing?”

Faced with a stony glare, Michael quickly withdrew, sheltering behind his boyfriend.

You’d better hide, Mikey, Brian thought, his clenched fist trembling as he sought to get himself under control and not punch the little troublemaker on the nose. Now that he knew Michael had seen the escort arrive at the loft, he was able to connect his interest in Brian’s weekend doings with all the hang-ups on his landline; the man must have been hoping that he’d been occupied with the escort the whole time. He wouldn’t confront Michael until he was less pissed off, Brian decided, but he was fed up with his _friend’s_ nosiness. It was high time that he backed off.

Before anyone else could say or do anything, the door to the diner opened - jingling the bell above - and hunky professor Ben entered. Brian watched as the tall man searched the diner briefly, before his eyes settled on the back of Theodore’s head. Smiling like a love-sick fool, Ben then glided over to their booth and slid in next to his boyfriend, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, babe,” he murmured quietly, giving the accountant a peck on the lips.

“Hi,” Ted replied in an equally hushed tone, eyes dopey.

Brian fake-gagged as he watched his friend fondly. It was really kind of disgusting how happy the two men looked to be together.

“Jesus,” Michael complained in a rare pause in between bites of his burger, “you lovebirds are everywhere.”

“Yes, we are, Honeypie,” Dr Dave asserted, leaning down and planting a big, wet smooch on Michael’s lips, lingering there for long seconds, apparently unbothered that his boyfriend’s mouth was full of half-masticated burger.

The adman didn’t have to fake his gagging this time. Turning away as to not lose his remaining appetite, he met Justin’s horrified eyes as the blond walked over to their table.

“Uh,” the young server began, eyes glued to the appalling scene that was playing out in the corner of the booth. Brian supposed it was one of those ‘can’t look away from an accident’ kind of things.

Justin shook himself, turning to the newcomer, “Hi, Professor, what can I get you?”

“Please call me Ben,” the hunky academician invited with a friendly smile.

“Um, sure, Ben,” the lad said a bit diffidently. It felt a little weird to address a teacher by his first name, but he guessed it wouldn’t be as awkward as learning to call the detective Carl.

“Any recommendations?” the professor asked. “Preferably something meat-free.”

“I think Fahad has a bit of his _ash-e reshteh_ left. Uh, that’s-“

“Bean and noodle soup,” Ben finished for him.

“Wow,” Justin grinned at the professor. “You’re the first one who’s had any idea what that is.”

“One of my colleagues is from Iran,” Ben explained. “She sometimes brings in home-cooked dishes for us to sample.”

“Cool. You can let Fahad know if his is up to snuff. Uh, if that’s what you want to eat.” Shit. Justin hoped he hadn’t sounded presumptuous. “Uh, let me just go make sure we still have some of the soup.” Justin waved vaguely in the direction of the kitchen before rushing away, his face flaming. Christ, the professor was going to think he was a total retard.

Moments later, he returned, balancing a steaming bowl of the soup and a glass of milk. Setting the items and some silverware down in front of Ben, he double-checked, “Is milk okay? I remember you drank that the last time you were here.”

“The perfect accompaniment to most meals,” the built man confirmed, taking a sip of the milk. “Hey, it’s soy milk,” he said in pleased surprise.

“I suggested to Debbie that we should stock it after your last visit,” Justin related. “Not only do some people prefer soy milk, others are lactose intolerant. When we get new menus printed, it’ll be listed in the drinks section.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you - and Debbie. Thank you.” Ben couched his appreciation in a way that made it clear he thought the change wouldn’t have happened if Justin hadn’t spoken up. “You know, Justin, your friends and family speak very highly of you, how hardworking you are and how well you’ve handled yourself as an out gay student at a private school.” Ben ignored the weird snicker-snort from Michael’s corner of the table, continuing, “While you were studying after the meal on Sunday night, the rest of us - that is, most of us,” he amended, “debated whether there’s been any improvement in how gay students are treated by their peers and teachers in middle school and high school.”

“I haven’t had the easiest time of it,” Justin admitted, “but St James may be at the extreme end of the spectrum. There’s basically zero support for queer students. Less than that, really, if you consider how the administration silently supports bullying.”

“You know I teach a gay studies class, right?”

Justin nodded.

“I can pretty much guarantee none of the students in my current class have ever experienced anything as excessive as what you’re enduring. Those that are gay either stayed in the closet in high school - some of them still aren’t out - or had enough of a support system that the bullies didn’t harass them constantly. I _know_ it would benefit them to hear your story; then they’d really grasp what it’s like to try to survive in a homophobic environment.”

Self-conscious, the teenager shrugged. It wasn’t like he was some kind of hero or something. He was just trying to get through the hell that was high school.

Ben chuckled self-deprecatingly. “This is my long-winded approach to asking if you’d be willing to serve as a guest lecturer at one of the class sessions. It wouldn’t be till spring, when I’ll have a new crop of students, but the make-up of the enrolled students will be essentially the same as it is this term. If you want some time to think it over, that’s fine, as long as you say yes,” he finished with a charming smile.

“You go, Baby!” Emmett clapped his hands in excitement. “You have to do it.”

Justin gave his flamboyant friend a tepid smile. He couldn’t help feeling intimidated by the idea of standing up and talking about his _personal experience_ in front of a group of college students, some of whom were probably juniors or seniors, with maybe even the odd graduate student thrown in. He’d definitely have to get more information and think it over before making up his mind. In the meantime, there was no harm in redirecting the conversation a little. “Um, I have a friend who’s studying at CMU and only recently came out. I think he could really do with someone to talk to. Would you mind if I gave him your contact info?”

Brian, who’d been busily feigning indifference about Justin’s _friend_ , snidely interjected, “Who’s that? The Bob Toy?”

A smirk crossed Justin’s face, and Emmett started giggling. What the fuck? Had he missed something? Brian wondered.

“He’s the most accommodating _Bob_ I’ve ever encountered,” the ebullient queen rhapsodised. “You shouldn’t be so adamant about not spending another night with him, Baby.”

The brunet stud snorted. What Justin needed was a challenge, not some boring, only passably good-looking, pansy. In other words, what he needed was Brian, and the adman was going to amp up his campaign to make the blond realise that. First of all, he needed to winkle out of Emmett everything he knew about fucking Boy Bob. There had to be a way to get the gossip queen to spill the beans...

While Brian was mulling over how to put the squeeze on Emmett, the professor removed his wallet from his slacks and extracted a couple of business cards. “Since I serve as the faculty advisor to the LGBT club at Carnegie Mellon, it’s one of my duties - although I consider it more of a privilege - to talk to students, queer or straight, irregardless of whether they’re members of the club.”

“That’s super,” Justin enthused while Ben jotted something down on the back of one of the cards.

“This top one’s for your friend,” the hunky teacher stated as he handed both cards to the teen, bestowing another genial smile on Justin. “He can contact me by phone or email. The other card’s for you. I wrote my mobile number on the back - you can call me at any time if you have questions about being a guest lecturer, or even if you just want to chat about whatever.”

“Sunshine, could you give me a hand?” Kiki asked, looking absolutely harried as she paused at the gang’s booth. “That snooty bitch Tannis is here with her lapdog, Phillip. They’re only eating here, I’d wager, because elections for the GLC leadership are coming up. Why they think dining here once every two years would fool us ‘undesirables’ into voting for them, I have no fucking clue.”

“Uh,” Justin asked warily - he hadn’t been very impressed when he’d met Tannis and Phillip at the GLC art show - “what is it you need me to do?”

“Make nice?” the tranny replied. “Please. They get on my last nerve, carping about the restrooms being dirty, the food overcooked, the service lousy-”

“It _is_ lousy,” Michael attested. “I got this nasty curds and whey thing I didn’t order; it took forever for my hamburger to be cooked; and I never got my second order of onion rings.”

“Anyway,” Kiki continued, ignoring Michael completely, “I’d really appreciate it if you'd deal with the bloody GLC queen bees tonight, Kiddo. I’ll owe you one.”

“No worries,” Justin replied, thinking it couldn’t be any worse than dealing the whining Astro Boy. With a “Later, guys” for the gang, he put on his brightest WASP smile and headed over to where the sour-faced duo was sitting.

 

Later that evening, Justin collapsed into a booth next to the one the boys still occupied, folded his arms on the tabletop, and rested his aching head on them. Had he ever been wrong, he mused. Sure, Michael was a pain to deal with most of the time, but unless he was feeling particularly jealous of the blond, he just gave him the cold shoulder. Tannis and Phillip on the other hand had ridden his ass - and not in a good way - for well over an hour, demanding that he bring them clean silverware; return their salads to the kitchen because the greens were wilted and browning; and deliver hot tea, not lukewarm coloured water. Their complaints were endless, and with Harry running late - again - Justin had been stuck dealing with them even longer.

The disagreeable pair kept him busy addressing their grievances, which meant he hadn’t been able to wait on any other tables and lost out significantly on the tips he usually raked in. To cap it all off, Tannis had claimed there was a snail in her salad, hurriedly flinging the supposed escargot to the other side of the diner before Justin could confirm its existence. “We’re not paying for these inedible, mollusc-ridden excuses for salads,” the infuriated woman loudly proclaimed.

Unable to grin and bear it any longer, the blond waiter had snapped. “Take your pinched faces, flat derrières, and rotten attitudes out of here, then,” he roared. “No one in this diner” - he swept his hand around the eatery - “is going to vote for you to be on the GLC council. You don’t give a rat’s ass about us, and we sure as heck can’t stand you!”

The diner exploded in a round of applause and whistles, someone shouting, “You need an attitude adjustment, _lady_. Go get laid, if you can find someone who wants a dried-up old prune like you.”

“I’ll be taking this up with the manager,” Tannis threatened, her tone icy.

“Please do. Her name’s Debbie Novotny.” Justin had stated calmly.

Now, a few minutes after his confrontation with the woman, Justin chuckled wearily as he remembered how Tannis had blanched. She must’ve somehow forgotten who was in charge at the Liberty Diner, so when confronted, she immediately backed down. She stalked out of the eatery, Phillip scurrying at her heels, neither of them issuing any more threats.

“Taylor,” a female voice accused, “are you taking a nap when you’re supposed to be tutoring me?”

Justin tilted his head to the side, slitted his eyes open, and grinned. “Hey, Syd,” he greeted the cheerleader, happy to see a friendly face. Just when had Sydney turned into a friend? he wondered, a little bemused.

“Well,” the pom-pom girl challenged, “snap to it!” adding a snap of her fingers for effect.

“You’ve got it wrong,” someone else interposed. “It’s hop to it!” Justin’s bestie came into view, demonstrating with a small hop and a giggle.

“We’re all studying together?” Syd asked. “Cool,” she added, her eyes sparkling with mischief, when the other two teens nodded.

Uh-oh, Justin mused. He wouldn’t stand a chance if the girls ganged up on him.

“Can we start with physics?” Daph beseeched, taking a seat opposite Justin. “I thought I was getting it, relatively anyhow. But when I was reading through the textbook earlier, it was like it all got sucked into a giant black hole. If I can’t suss it out, I’m gonna tank the course and lose my bonus.”

The cheerleader looked at her quizzically. “What bonus?” she asked before waving a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got to start with calculus, so I can prove to Dickhead - and Chris - that blondes aren’t rubbish at maths.”

Amused, Justin lifted an eyebrow, not bothering to state the obvious - that at least _one_ blond was bloody brilliant at maths.

Daphne scowled at the pom-pom girl. “Who says you get to decide? You wouldn’t even be here if Jus hadn’t taken pity on you.”

Her eyes narrowing in outrage, it looked like the cheerleader was about to lay into the other girl.

Before it devolved into a physical contest - which he was sure Daph would surprise Sydney by winning; she had a mean right hook - Justin considered suggesting a coin toss to resolve the matter.

An intervention wasn’t necessary, however, as Sydney visibly forced herself to relax. “I’ve been swotting up on that wretched theory of relativity until my head wants to burst,” the cheerleader bemoaned, “and I still don’t get it, unlike calculus, which I’m actually starting to get the hang of. So, yeah, I want to study physics with you and Jus too.”

Clever, Justin mused, the way she’d included Daphne in the equation. Even though Daph would see right through the manipulation, it would probably make her more sympathetic.

“So, what’s the big deal?” his bestie asked, her tone less confrontational.

“One, I want to show up my boyfriend before I kick him to the curb - that’ll make my rejection of the wanker sting that much more.” Sydney explained. “Two, and more importantly, I want to stick it to Dixon. If I get a B or better on the final exam, that’ll raise my grade for the semester to at least a C+, which will chap Dickhead’s arse.”

“Then he won’t be able to accuse you of being a beautician,” Daphne surmised.

“I’d have to off myself if he did that.” Sydney agreed. “There’s no way I’m going to be lumped in with that twit Farley or, even worse” - she shuddered - “be sent down to eleventh-grade maths.”

“That would be a fate worse than death,” Daphne acknowledged, paling.

From her pallor, Justin guessed that his bestie was envisioning herself suffering that terrible fate - and having to tell her parents what had happened. “None of us is getting sent back a grade,” he asserted. “Let me grab-”

“Like you’re in any danger of that, Jus,” Daph interrupted.

“I know, right?” Sydney joined forces with Daphne, rolling her eyes at him.

“Is this how it’s going to be all evening?” the beleaguered lad asked.

“Yes!” the girls chorused, Syd sliding into the booth next to Daph.

Moments later, his rucksack retrieved from the break room, Justin stopped at the counter long enough to pile a platter high with lemon bars and to snag three small plates, mugs, saucers, spoons, a creamer, and the carafe of coffee. He eyed the Mr Coffee askance as he collected the items - the java it brewed was far inferior to that produced by the kaput coffee maker. A proper machine was supposed to be delivered tomorrow, thankfully, since all the waitstaff had been fielding complaints about the poor quality of the joe for the last two days.

“Yum! Gimme!” Daphne demanded when Justin deposited the sweets on the table. “You have to try these,” she urged, nudging the plate toward Sydney.

The cheerleader took a dainty bite out of one of the lemony treats, humming in delight and promptly biting off a larger piece. “Good thing I have cheerleading practice tomorrow,” she commented as she polished off the first lemon bar and immediately lifted another off the platter before pausing to mix cream and sugar into her coffee. “The pounds would be glomming onto my hips otherwise.”

She sounded just like Brian, was Justin’s first thought. Then he remembered how she’d talked about being pudgy until a few years ago - she was probably terrified of ever again being overweight.

“Really,” Daphne joked, “the only reason I come to the diner is because of these lemon bars.”

“I’m right there with you.” Syd deadpanned. “I mean, it’s just a bonus for Justin that we’re giving him the privilege of tutoring us.”

Justin shook his head in resignation. It was going to be a long evening. Removing a page from his notebook, he placed it in front of the teasing scamps. “The ‘privileged one’ has prepared some problems for you to solve. Have fun,” he finished, smirking when the girls groaned in dismay.

Forty-five minutes later, the frustrated cheerleader wadded up the page that contained her latest efforts and threw it at Justin. “Fuck. I’m gonna go down the pan and end up working in a beauty parlour,” she wailed.

Justin suppressed an inappropriate urge to giggle. She was such a drama queen - she could even give Brian a run for his money. The exasperated lad was almost at his wits’ end - Sydney had ended up making almost no progress, partly because she kept trying to cut corners with working out the solutions, but mainly because she wasn’t concentrating. After half-heartedly working on a problem for a couple of minutes, the scritching of her pencil would halt, and she’d regale them with the latest bit of gossip or ask Justin questions about his sex life that he had no intention of answering.

Wait… maybe that would motivate her, even if Syd was bound to ask cringe-worthy questions. “Let’s make this fun,” the boy suggested.

Daphne, who’d been slowly but steadily making her way through the problems, echoed the cheerleader’s derisive snort. “Calculus, fun? Get real, Jus.”

“I can make it fun.”

“How?” Sydney challenged.

“For every answer you get right,” Justin offered, “I’ll answer one question.”

Her eyes rounding, blonde girl stared at him speculatively. “Any question?”

“Yep,” Justin confirmed. “But only one per correct answer.”

“You won’t prevaricate?” the cheerleader probed.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Justin responded, chuckling ruefully. “My fact checker is sitting right next to you.”

“That’s right. I’ll keep him honest. Anyroad, since I’ve already solved eight of these,” Daphne burbled, “I want to know-”

“Whoa! Hold on a sec, Chanders.” Justin rushed to restrain his friend’s enthusiasm.

Daph gave him a mutinous look. “You better not be saying I don’t get to play.”

And he’d been thinking that _Syd_ was a drama queen? “What I meant,” Justin stressed, “is that I’ll only answer one question per problem. I don’t care which of you asks the question but if, say, you both get number five right, you don’t get to ask two questions.”

Daph pouted, resembling Molly right before the little girl would throw a tantrum.

“You won’t lose out,” Justin reassured his bestie. “It’s just that the first twelve questions on the worksheet are a little too basic for you. You haven’t been coasting _that much_ , Daph; you were just distracted for a while.”

His friend puffed up at the praise, only grimacing at the thought of _what_ had distracted her.

“You should focus on solving the last group of more complex problems,” Justin recommended. “That way, you’ll not only get to ask me questions, you’ll also be better prepared for this Friday’s test - and the final.”

“Okay,” Daph conceded with an impish grin. “It’s not like I don’t already know most everything about you anyway, Jus.”

Fuck, Brian thought from the neighbouring booth, where he’d been unobtrusively watching the blond and straining to hear as much of the conversation as possible. He wished there was some way he could jot down some questions and slip them to the blonde girl before they got to the Q&A portion of the study session. Maybe he could talk the professor, who was sitting directly behind the cheerleader, into switching places. Then he could accomplish his goal through a little sleight of hand. But what reason could he give for the switch? Fuck, he couldn’t think straight - that Bob fucker had his normally incisive thinking all muddled.

“Yo, Bri!” Emmett’s voice penetrated his daze.

“Christ, Honeycutt, you don’t have to shout,” Brian grumbled. “I’m not in my dotage yet.”

“Hmm,” the queen disputed, a doubtful look on his face, “I think that stage of your life has already started. I called your name three times and was about to wave my hand in front of your face.”

“Well, you’ve got my attention now. What did you want?”

“Just to have you hand me the napkin dispenser from the table behind you.” Emmett pointed to the one on the table between him and Michael. “Ours is empty.”

“I was thinking about an important account,” tripped off of Brian’s tongue. That wasn’t really a lie; Operation Twat Retrieval was essential to the well-being of Kinnetik - and its owner.

“Why don’t I get a damp washcloth from Fahad?” Theodore offered, nudging Ben so that the professor slid out of the booth first. “Then Brian can keep _taxing_ himself with ideas for the account.” He shot his boss a knowing look, his eyes twinkling merrily as he strode over to the kitchen window, Ben ambling along beside him. Emmett scooted out too, beelining toward the men’s room.

Wait. Why was Ted getting a washcloth? Brian looked back at the empty paper napkin dispenser, this time turning his head toward Michael and Dr Dave, both of whom were dabbing ineffectually at red splotches on Mikey’s Batgirl t-shirt. Snorting as he realised the short brunet had somehow squirted ketchup on himself, Brian again shut out the yammering at his own table, so he could eavesdrop on what was happening at the neighbouring booth. He’d still have to pump Emmet for information about Bob, but there’d be no need to sweat answers out of the man that he could acquire now...

“Okay, you each get two questions,” Justin informed the girls after perusing the sheets they’d shoved at him.

Brian grinned, mentally rubbing his hands in glee. Despite having Daphne for a best friend, he doubted the lad had any idea what he was in for. It was his experience that no one was as nosy about and entranced by gay sex as a straight woman…

“So do you top or bottom?” Sydney dived right in.

“I’m ambidextrous, uh, I mean versatile,” Justin hastily corrected himself.

Christ, the kid sounded like the nervous virgin Brian had collected from under a lamp post.

Both Daphne and cheerleader giggled as the boy turned beet red.

He wouldn’t be losing that blush anytime soon, Brian reckoned.

“Do you really like taking it, you know, up the ass?” Sydney pressed, the hitch in her voice betraying both her eagerness and her lack of knowledge about the topic.

“I said I was versatile,” Justin hedged.

You’re not gonna get away with that non-answer, Sunshine, Brian mused.

“What does that mean? You just lie there and take it because it makes your partner feel good?” the blonde girl scoffed, her voice rising. “You can do better than that, Taylor.”

“Keep it down!” Justin demanded, casting a quick glance at Brian, who pretended to be absorbed in the various efforts to make Mikey feel better about the damage to his one-of-a-kind Batgirl tee. “He’s got ears!”

“He?” Daph teased. “Do you mean ‘The Face of God’?”

Brian preened. That had to be him, right?

“Daph!” the outraged blond boy protested. “That’s privileged information.”

“You only need to give a one-word answer, Jus. I’m taking it easy on you.”

“Yes.”

The adman stored away that titbit, the wheels spinning as he contemplated how to reinstil that awe in Justin.

“Now answer my question,” Syd insisted, remorseless in her pursuit of information.

“It feels fucking amazing,” the lad confessed. “With the right person, it, uh, makes me feel complete.”

What the fuck? Had Justin done some kind of comparison fucking? Who was the _right person_ anyway? An outraged Brian started to rise from the table, intent on shaking the answers out of Justin if need be.

“You know, Bri,” Emmett, who was now sitting across from him, advised quietly, placing a hand atop the brunet’s, “you should sit back down if you don’t want to draw everyone’s attention.”

Shit, the man was right. If he confronted Justin in the middle of the diner, it would be all over Liberty Avenue before midnight. Bad enough that the flashy queen had caught him eavesdropping and reacting like a- Brian’s thoughts stuttered to a halt, since he couldn’t figure out what to compare himself to. Certainly not a boyfriend since he didn’t do those. And he wasn’t jealous. Absolutely not.

“Besides,” Em continued, winking at the stud as he sank back onto the banquette, “if you wait, maybe one of those girls will ask the question that’s burning on the tip of your tongue.”

“Does it feel better to be the, er,” Daphne floundered about for the right word, “the whatchamacallit, you know, the fuckee rather than the fucker?”

Both blondes burst out laughing, while Daph crimsoned in embarrassment.

“Get with the program, Chanders,” the cheerleader snickered. “It’s top and bottom, not fucker and fuckee.”

“Like you’re so well versed in gay sex,” Daphne retorted. “You wouldn’t need to ask Justin if you knew what was what, now would you?”

“Crap,” Emmett muttered, “I hope there’s not going to be a catfight. I’m not about to get in between two girls with long fingernails.”

Brian glanced at the other men at their table, breathing out a sigh of relief when it seemed that they were engrossed in discussing Supergirl versus Superman - what a no-brainer - and remained unaware of the question and answer session in the next booth.

“You’re right,” the brash cheerleader admitted, surprising Brian; he’d thought the blonde was like him, not the type to concede graciously. “I, uh, I,” she stammered, “may have logged onto my dad’s computer and done a bit of research.”

“You got to watch gay porn?” Daphne inquired breathlessly.

“I wish,” Sydney replied, “but the rents have the good stuff locked down with one of those annoying parental controls. I was only able to do a little bit of research about terminology and suchlike.”

Daphne made a moue of disappointment.

“So, Taylor,” the pom-pom girl returned her focus to Justin, “answer the question, do you prefer to top or bottom?”

“No preference,” the lad promptly responded. “Different but equally rewarding sensations, especially when you sync with your partner.”

He was certainly right about that, Brian agreed, his dick filling and pressing uncomfortably against the restrictive denim of his jeans.

“What kind-” Daph tried to sneak in another question.

“Nice try,” Justin chided. “You’ll have to solve more of those problems if you want more answers.”

Both girls immediately went back to work.

Brian groaned in irritation, drumming his fingers restlessly against the table. He tuned in briefly to the ongoing superperson debate but quickly grew bored. What the fuck was taking those damned females so long, anyhow? Finally, after what seemed like hours but was actually less than twenty minutes, the girls again passed their worksheets over to Justin to check.

“Well done,” the boy declared, appearing pleased with the results after carefully reviewing their solutions. “You each made a few mistakes but it won’t take me long to show you how to fix those. I’ll be magnanimous - three questions each. Go ahead and grill me.”

“Um, Chris, um,” Sydney dithered before blurting out, “that handjob you gave Chris, did he get hard?”

Chris? Who the fuck was Chris? the bewildered stud wondered. He mustn’t have been much of a trick if all he got was a handjob - not that Brian would refuse one if the lad offered.

“Yeah, Sydney,” Justin replied, his voice gentle. “He got off pretty darned quickly, and I don’t think it was because of the... girl he was talking about.”

“Not me, I take it.”

Justin shook his head.

The cheerleader slumped in her seat. “He really must be a closet case. He can barely get it up for me, even when I give him a blowjob. You’d think any warm cavern would do…” she trailed off. After a beat of silence, however, she rallied, declaring, “Fucking Hobbs. Some people should’ve been ejaculated into a pillow.”

Brian was too stunned to chuckle at the girl’s witty sally. The pom-pom girl was Hobbs’ girlfriend? What the fuck was Justin doing tutoring a girl who must at the very least, have turned a blind eye to some of the bullying? He was going to have a stern word with the lad at the first opportunity.

“My turn,” Daphne intervened, lightening the tense atmosphere when she inquired, “Do you actually have to shave, Jus?”

“Wha-” The boy blinked at her, clearly thrown by the non-sexual nature of the question.

“I mean, whenever I visited your house, I’d see this electric razor on the sink that always looked like it was new out the box, as if it was only on display to prove that you were old enough to shave. And, like, even though it’s been hours since you got up this morning, I can’t see any stubble on your chin.”

Justin’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out as he imitated a goldfish.

Brian looked at Emmett and then quickly away, both men biting their lips so they wouldn’t start laughing.

“Aw, you’re just a baby face,” the blonde girl cooed, reaching over to stroke her hand along Justin’s cheek.

“Stop that,” Justin objected, batting her hand away. “I do so have to shave-”

Brian bit down harder, a muffled snort escaping anyway as he recalled Justin lathering up his face and shaving at non-existent hair. Christ, he really missed having the lad at the loft.

“Methinks you doth protest too much.” Daphne dissolved into giggles, with Sydney following suit.

Justin folded his arms, let out an irritated huff, and pointedly stared out the window.

“If you’re more comfortable with questions about gay sex, Taylor,” Sydney giggle-snorted, “that’s fine by me.”

Christ, Brian thought, his shoulders heaving with silent laughter, the lad sure had gotten himself into an untenable situation.

After a few seconds of waiting for the cheerleader to frame her next inquiry, Justin broke down, barking, “Well?”

“Have you ever had sex with a virgin?” the girl managed to gasp between giggles.

“He has,” Daphne jumped in, answering for her friend, more laughter welling up so that she could barely be understood, “with a _B- BOB_.”

Justin looked at the laughing girl in bemusement for a beat before saying, “Oh! That one!”

What the fuck? There were so many Bobs that the little shit couldn’t keep track of them? Brian wondered incredulously. The fuckers must be breeding like lice.

“The other _guy_ ,” Daphne murmured, before she suddenly stopped speaking.

What was with the weird emphasis on ‘guy’? The baffled stud couldn’t figure it out. Eavesdropping on a conversation shouldn’t be this difficult, he thought, shaking his head in irritation, but the teenagers were communicating in some sort of code.

“Did you make it good for him?” the girl finally asked, her tone wistful.

“I had a good teacher so, yeah, I think I did.”

Goddammit. He hadn’t shared his skills with the lad so he could turn around and use them on Bobby Boy.

At that moment, someone tapped out a melody on their car horn, just outside the window where the three teens were sitting.

“Someone’s playing your song, Justin,” Sydney mocked. “You know, ‘Shave and a Hair-cut, Two Bits,’” she recited, rapping her knuckles against the table in a matching rhythm.

Brian chuckled, appreciating the girl’s sassy humour.

“Crap! Daphne exclaimed, standing up and shoving her books into her backpack. “That’s my dad. I’ve gotta book or he’ll have a bloody fit.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Sydney apologised, glancing at the clock and moving out of Daphne’s way. “I really didn’t mean to use up all the study time on calculus and never get to physics.”

“It’s all good,” Daph shouted over her shoulder as she rushed out of the diner. “It’s _always_ fun to torture Justin.”

“How about I give you a lift home, Taylor?” the cheerleader offered with another cheeky smile. “It’s the least I can do since you’ve tutored me on two subjects - maths and gay sex.”

 

Brian left the diner at half past ten, wrapped from head to toe in his warm winter coat. He refused to feel discouraged that he didn’t even get to ask to give Justin a lift - especially seeing as that blonde’s four-by-four had been parked right in front of the diner, while he’d have to walk two streets over before catching a glimpse of his own car.

Steeling himself for the long trek in the snow, he buried his nose in his collar to keep it from freezing right off. He reckoned not even he could pull off the Voldemort look, and then his hopes of ever getting back together with Justin would be well and truly dashed.

As his mind spun fantastical images of nose-less people, he wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, and it was therefore inevitable that he would bump into someone.

“Sorry,” he gasped, feeling like he’d just hit a wall. He hadn’t noticed the couple of fags that were making out on the side of the pavement and ran straight into them, knocking the air out of his lungs in the process.

The younger of the two grinned. “No problem, we weren’t really paying attention,” he allowed, giving his fedora-donning partner a look. The man was attractive - tall, slim, reddish-blond, and pink-cheeked… and familiar.

“Oh, hey, it’s you,” the redhead exclaimed once he took a good look at Brian. “From the backroom at Babylon?”

An uncomfortable memory of insistent hands wrapped in the haze of drugs and alcohol flashed across his mind. Fuck, of course. “You’re the guys who - uh - sent the idiot packing,” he muttered, not meeting their eyes. The redhead and the marine - he should’ve recognised the bloody fedora sooner.

“Yeah, that’s us,” the younger man smiled, somehow managing not to look either pitying or patronising. “I’m Donald,” he introduced himself, outstretching a gloved hand.

Brian shook it. “Brian. Uh, nice to meet you.” God, he was being awkward.

The ginger then pointed at his lover. “And this is Raymond.”

“Yes. Raymond.” Brian shook the marine’s hand as well. “We saw each other at the gym the other day.”

“Indeed, we did,” Raymond confirmed. “Your friends are interesting people,” he then added in a carefully neutral voice.

Donald raised his eyebrows playfully. “Oh yeah? Was one of them the one you told me about? The one who kept hitting on you?” he asked, voice light and yet tinged with clear jealousy.

The older man patted his lover’s cheek in what Brian thought was a bit of a condescending gesture. “Oh, hush, Donny,” he chided. “Emmett is delightful, but he could never be a patch on you.”

Brian winced. Seriously, what was it with loved-up couples today? “I, uh,” he spoke up, voice stupidly uncertain. He’d better put a stop to their exchange before he became a witness to yet another disgusting make-out session. “I wanted to say thank you,” he ground out.

Donald - or Donny, he thought in amusement - gave him an inquiring look.

“For - you know - helping me out and all,” he clarified. “At Babylon.”

The redhead smiled sympathetically. “It was our pleasure, trust me. We just did what we thought was right.” Then, glancing skeptically at his lover, he altered it, “Well, _Raymond_ did what _I_ thought was right.”

Brian snorted, uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Right, well… I’d best be going and leave you to it,” he told the couple. “It was, uh, nice meeting you.” Christ, he sounded like a complete dolt, stuttering ‘uh’ practically after every other word.

“Likewise,” Raymond tipped his hat slightly, effectively dismissing him, before turning to his younger partner. “Now where were we?” he muttered, voice deep and gravelly as he pulled Donald closer by his waist. “I have plans for you.”

Brian hurriedly left them to their own devices, ignoring the high-pitched whine that escaped the ginger’s throat at whatever the marine was doing to him behind Brian’s back. Good God, he was sick of seeing all these happy couples, while his own relationship with Justin was basically nonexistent at the moment.

Speaking of Justin, he had yet to figure out how to get Emmett to tell him everything he knew about the Bob - or should that be Bobs? - Justin was fucking. He wasn’t above a bit of blackmail if necessary. Since the flamboyant queen wanted the job catering Kinnetik’s gala, the adman would just employ a little arm-twisting when Em stopped by the loft tomorrow afternoon, garnering any details that hadn’t been revealed during the girls’ inquisition of the boy. Then, when he and Justin worked on the Wertshafter account later in the day, the adman would be prepared to counter the undue influence Bobby Boy was having on _Brian’s_ blond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s your prize for the 200th review on Kinnetik Dreams, Kerri! We hope you get a kick out of the way we interpreted your request :)
> 
> Du jour in English is used to describe something of short duration. In French, it literally means ‘of the day’ as du matin means ‘of the morning’.
> 
> If you’d like to refresh your memory as to what Second Hand Job looks like, go here: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=2 
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing 
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	35. Chapter 35

Thursday morning found Brian wading through mountains of snow as he once again made his way to the Liberty Diner. There had been nothing in the way of breakfast at the loft and he didn’t really feel like making his own coffee anyway, so he’d decided to go to the eatery. He’d have an egg white omelette and a big Americano, and he’d perhaps even bring a couple of lemon bars back to the loft for Theodore and Cynthia. The two were due to arrive at half past eight, which gave Brian about an hour before he had to be back home to let them in.

Stepping inside the diner to the jingle of the bell above the door, Brian immediately aimed for the bar. The joint was always full this time of the morning, overflowing with fags refuelling after a whole night of clubbing and lesbians getting ready for work. He refused to think what it said about him that he was a part of that second group today.

“Brian!” called a sugary sweet voice from behind him, followed closely by an excited screech of, “Babp!”

Turning around, he gave Lindsay a tongue-in-cheek smile. “Hello, Sonnyboy,” he greeted his son, reaching out to take the tot into his arms. “And what brings _you_ here? Refuelling after a night of partying, or are we ready to go to work?”

Lindsay sighed exasperatedly. “Brian!” she hissed, looking around. “Stop saying things like that - God knows what people will think.”

He followed her gaze, meeting the amused eyes of several individuals. “That I was making a joke?” he suggested, before rolling his lips in between his teeth. A purple-haired dyke at a nearby table grinned into her cappuccino.

“Yes, well…” his childhood friend trailed off. “You never know.”

“Bah bah!” Gus disagreed with his mother, waving his chubby arm at her in a chiding gesture.

Brian bounced him on his hip. “That’s right, Sonnyboy, momma is just being silly.”

Lindsay rolled her eyes fondly - a skill that was a testament to her WASP upbringing. “Please, Brian, that just means he’s hungry,” she informed him with a smile, pulling a milk bottle out of her ginormous bag.

The brunet took it out of her hands, handing it to his son. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked him, watching as the little tyke clumsily shoved the rubber nipple in his mouth. Gus took a couple of pulls of the white liquid, before making a face. “Bah!” he exclaimed angrily and only Brian’s quick reflexes prevented the bottle from landing on the floor.

Lindsay sighed. “He hates the soy milk,” she admitted resignedly.

Brian sniffed at the milk bottle, wincing. “Why would you give it to him then?”

Shrugging, the blonde explained, “Our pediatrician said to give him different things to try. He likes fennel tea, cow milk, apple and carrot juice… but for some reason hates soy milk.”

“Hi! What can I get you?” the Asian busboy who had been flapping to and fro around the diner the whole time Brian and Lindsay spoke interrupted them.

Brian turned to him. “An egg white omelette, large cup of Americano, six lemon bars to go, and,” he paused, looking at the brat wiggling in his arms. “And pour some apple juice into the boy’s sippy cup.” Then he turned to Lindsay. “You want anything?”

The lesbian shook her head as she pulled out the cup for Gus and handed it to the busboy. “No, I already ate, thank you. That was thoughtful of you to remember Gus,” she simpered.

He turned back to the waiter, ignoring Lindsay’s comment. As if he would forget his own son. “That’s all,” he told the lad.

The Asian grinned. “Coming right up, Mr Kinney, sir!” he announced with a badly executed salute and a lewd wink.

Gus was not to be outshined. “Sah!” he cried out happily, clenching his little hand into a fist and wiggling it in front of his face. “Dada, sah!”

“I’m no sir, Sonnyboy,” Brian corrected his kid, poking him in the belly gently. “I _work_ for a living.”

Lindsay sighed again - apparently in one of her sighing moods. “Brian, don’t-” she cut herself off, before giving him a butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth smile. “I wanted to ask for a favour,” she began.

Here it comes, thought Brian resignedly, speculating how much they ‘needed’ this time.

“I was wondering,” the blonde continued as if Brian’s face hadn’t soured, “if you were willing to look after Gus for a little while on Sunday? Melanie and I wanted to have a bit of time to ourselves.”

His son looked up at him imploringly. “Dada, bah gogh!”

Clearing his throat and trying not to look surprised, Brian immediately agreed. “Yeah, sure. I can do that.” Then, just to be an asshole, he added, “Sonnyboy certainly doesn’t need to be around while you and the she-devil are having a ‘bit of time’ to yourselves - it would probably scar him for life.”

Lindsay didn’t rise to the bait, smiling at him sweetly. “That’s wonderful, thank you.” Then, noticing a table nearby clearing, she motioned her head towards it. “You want to come and sit down with me? We can chat while you eat.”

Brian didn’t have it in him to decline, as Gus was patting the side of his neck gently with a chubby hand, cooing, “Dada, sah bum.” at him.

“Uh, Mr Kinney,” the busboy returned as they were seating themselves, scratching at his head.

“Yeah, what is it?” Brian groused, still not thrilled at having been roped into breakfast with his son’s mother. For all that he loved Lindsay, being regaled with the doings of her muncher household was something he usually deftly avoided.  
  
He eyed the busboy warily as he continued to scratch. Did the kid have dandruff or some other kind of scalp condition? Brian would have to inspect his food carefully to make sure there were no flakes or strands of black hair in it before eating.  
  
The young man gave him another flirtatious wink, which Brian ignored. He wasn’t bad-looking, but not nearly as hot as Justin.  
  
“Well, sir-”  
  
Christ, there the kid went with the ‘sir’ again, making the brunet feel ancient.  
  
“Sah, sah, sah,” Gus burbled, stretching out one hand and grabbing hold of his daddy’s shirt with a drooled-on fist.  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t-”  
  
“Spit it out, for fuck’s sake,” Brian growled, interrupting him.  
  
Lindsay tittered, “That’s not what you usually say,” causing him to cast at irritated glance at the blonde.  
  
The kid finally told him what the problem was. “I can’t make you an Americano, sir.”  
  
“Why the fuck not?”  
  
“We only have black coffee?” the kid explained, his voice rising so that it came out like a question. “I don’t know how to do all that novelty shit.”  
  
Brian felt like he’d stepped into an alternate universe. He looked at the Asian waiter like he was an idiot. “You just pour some fucking water into an espresso,” he growled at the kid. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

The busboy shrugged apologetically with a big grin. “Sure thing, sir. Don’t know why you had to say it all fancy though.”

Brian opened his mouth to further berate the annoying twit but found him already gone, cleaning up plates from a table of tired-looking queens in sequins.

 

When he left the diner forty minutes later, he knew he was running late. Lindsay hadn’t stopped for breath the whole time and only left him alone once Gus became too fussy to be around other people.

Burrowing into his warmest winter coat and clutching a paper bag of lemon bars to his chest, Brian lengthened his stride in an attempt to erase some of his delay.

He was a street away from the loft when his mobile rang. Cursing quietly as he tried to simultaneously take off his glove, pull out his phone, and juggle the bag of lemon bars, he almost got run over by a swerving Beamer.

“Asshole!” he shouted as he pressed the green button to accept the call from an unknown number. “Learn how to fucking drive!”

“Brian?” came from the phone. “You okay?”

“Justin,” the brunet rasped, coughing slightly from having just yelled in the freezing air. “I’m fine, just some imbecile with a driving licence.”

The teenager hmmed in understanding. “Right, uh, I’m calling to confirm the meeting today?”

Brian winced. Were they really so far gone that they had to call each other to ‘confirm’ a meeting? Should he jot down Justin’s name in his planner? Or have Cynthia set up the meeting instead? “I thought we agreed to meet tonight?” he asked.

Justin sounded uncomfortable. “Yeah, I know. But you didn’t specify the time and I thought…” he trailed off.

“Justin,” the brunet said quietly, “I’ll see you a little after eight at Debs’, okay?”

“Okay,” the teen answered equally quietly.

Brian repeated, “Okay,” suppressing an eyeroll at how stupid they both sounded. They were only a step away from ‘you hang up’ and ‘no, you hang up first.’ “Listen,” he said, looking at his watch. “I have to go. Theodore and Cynthia are probably already waiting for me at the loft.”

The blond suddenly perked up, “You’ll see Ted then? Have you already told him about the Michael thing?”

“What Michael thing?” Brian asked, playing dumb.

Justin made an unimpressed sound. “You know what I mean, Brian,” he chided. “Have you told Ted that one of his closest friends thought it would be a good idea to make a move on his boyfriend?”

“Oh, that,” the adman sighed. “No, not yet.”

He could practically see Justin’s disapproving expression. “You have to do it, Bri; Ted deserves to know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I said I would,” he assured the teen. “Now I gotta go. See you after eight.”

“See you,” the younger man chirped before hanging up.

Brian was left staring at his phone screen, the unknown number glaring at him. Where had the brat been calling from anyway? he wondered, saving the number to his phone absentmindedly. He might not be able to call the brat at that number, as God knew what sort of phone it was, but he’d at least know when it was the blond who was calling him if that number popped up in the future.

He started walking again, being careful to avoid any other swerving cars and trying to keep his balance on the icy pavement. Once he made it to his building, he saw both Theodore and Cynthia standing in front of the main door, looking like two human popsicles.

“For god’s sake, Brian!” Cynthia forced out through chattering teeth. “Where the hell were you? I think I froze my butt off.”

Brian handed her the bag of lemon bars as an apology. “I met Lindsay at the diner,” he explained, before saying pointedly, “We talked.”

A sympathetic look passed briefly over his secretary’ face. “Well, open the damn door, so we can go inside,” she told him, before wordlessly handing him a cup of joe from the upscale coffee shop near her house.

“Thank fuck,” Brian muttered gratefully. Uncaring that the drink was now more of an iced coffee, he took a gulp before opening the door to his building. “All I’ve had this morning is diner swill.”

The trio made their way upstairs, entering the warm loft with unsuppressable shudders at the change in temperature. Brian sipped at his coffee, while Ted and Cynthia split the lemon bars between the two of them.

“I brought the final financial estimates,” the older man informed Brian once he was done eating. “Along with the stuff Cynthia brought, you should have everything you need to meet with Melanie.”

Brian hmmed. “Good. Let’s go over it one last time then, so that I can face the dragon.”

Cynthia pulled a stack of papers out of her briefcase. “Let’s do it. I have a couple errands to run today, so the sooner we’re done with this, the sooner I can go.”

“What errands?” Brian asked her suspiciously. He wouldn’t let his secretary leave unless he was sure she wasn’t just going out to buy a new pair of shoes or something.

The blonde gave him a stubborn look, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m off to the insurance company to see what sort of package they would have to offer to our employees,” she told him. “Any complaints?”

The brunet stud shrugged noncommittally. “No, go ahead. Better you than me,” he told her.

Cynthia smirked, spreading the papers across the table. “You say that now, but once you’re dealing with your lawyer friend, you’ll regret it.”

Brian went to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge in a useless effort to avoid doing the paperwork. “Please,” he snorted, “I can deal with one lesbian.”

Ted swallowed a chuckle, grabbing a folder to work on. “Sure thing, Brian,” he teased. “We just won’t tell Mel you said that.”

The adman puffed up his chest in offence, before deflating quickly. Even the best had to be able to admit when they were in over their head. “Yeah, don’t tell her that,” he agreed. “I’d rather keep both of my balls, thanks.”

 

By half ten, the trio had gone through all the paperwork and deemed everything to be ready for Brian’s meeting with the she-devil. Cynthia had already left for her foray into the secrets of insurance packages and premiums, while Ted promised to stay behind and man the phone, fielding calls from the construction company, the bank, and - of course - Michael.

As for Brian, the brunet was currently running a little late for his meeting with Melanie. Damn Lindsay for screwing up his whole schedule for today.

“You’re late,” were the first words the lawyer greeted him with once he made it to her office. “Exactly five minutes.”

Brian shrugged. “You know me, always fashionably late.”

Melanie sighed sufferingly. “Just give me the damn papers, so I can look them over.”

The adman snicked open his briefcase, removed the paperwork, and placed it in the attorney’s outstretched hand. Melanie immediately started scanning the top page, only looking up when another item appeared in her line of vision.

“I don’t accept bribes,” she drily remarked, even as the fingers of her right hand twitched towards the bottle of Jim Beam Black label that had landed on her desk. “Not even bourbon ones.”

Like he’d be so stupid as to try bribing the bulldyke, Brian mused, feeling his balls draw in closer to his body. She really would emasculate him. Feigning indifference and hoping the beads of sweat along his hairline weren’t visible, he shrugged and stated, “It’s to thank you for being a good mother to Gus.”

Her brow furrowing, Melanie shot him a baffled look. Brian could tell it was killing her not to ask what he was talking about - after all, he’d never given her any kind of gift before. He wasn’t about to inform her that he felt a little guilty for necking the bottle she’d stowed away in her media cabinet at home. Plus, he was certain she no more wanted to be reminded of the _compromising_ position they’d awakened in than he did. Thinking about it now was giving him the heebie-jeebies all over again.

“I should probably keep this here at the office for safekeeping,” Mel commented as she curled her hand proprietorially around the bottle and drew it towards herself. “Last night, Linds threatened to pour a bottle of Merlot down the drain if I dared to open it. I only wanted one glass, but she’s become awfully tetchy about anyone drinking alcohol around her.”

“Huh?” Brian grunted in confusion. “Lindsay has always enjoyed wine, even the occasional beer.”

“Heck,” Melanie reminisced as she set the Beam to one side of her desk, “I can remember her chugging beer at a kegger or two, back in our college days.”

The brunet hid a grimace as he recalled the experimentation that had resulted after one of those keggers, one Melanie hadn’t been present at. He’d even given into Lindsay’s entreaties for a repeat, although he had to get stoned first. After that, he’d forbidden her to bring up the subject ever again.

“It’s this whole breastfeeding shtick,” the bulldyke elaborated. “Linds is determined to hold out for an entire year. I keep telling her that nine months is plenty. Honestly, I can’t imagine letting a kid suck on my tits for that long-” Melanie paused, her mouth pursed in disgust at the idea.

Brian briefly forgot where he was, instead recalling the last time Justin had latched onto his nipples. Fuck, but that had felt good, he thought as there was a stirring at his groin.

“Yeah,” Mel resumed, shaking her head in refusal, “that’s a no go, even with a baby as sweet and toothless as Gus.”

Pulled out of his pleasant daydream and reminded of his son’s toothless state, Brian frowned. Despite Justin’s frequent PSAs about some babies not getting any teeth until they were over a year old, surely the nipper should have at least _one_ tooth by now. “If Lindsay quits with shoving her tit in his mouth and switches to a bottle,” Brian suggested, “maybe that will stimulate growth of his teeth.” He didn’t care if he was spouting bullshit. Gus must be fucking sick of having floppy mammary glands shoved in his face, so he’d better come to the tot’s rescue.

“You want to propose that to Linds?” Melanie snorted. “If you think I can be determined, you’ve never taken on a hormonally driven mother. I’ve told Lindsay that I totally get the importance of breastfeeding exclusively for the first six months - to reduce the likelihood of problems like obesity and build immunities to illness and allergies - but there’s no fucking reason she can’t taper off now, or combine some bottle feeding with breastfeeding. It’s not like we aren’t giving him other things to drink and eat anyhow.”

Brian quirked an eyebrow at the bulldyke. “That sounds like one of Justin’s PSAs,” he snarked.

The lawyer gave him a bit of a sheepish look. “Well, yeah,” she admitted. “But I did double-check what he said. How the fuck does Justin know so much about babies anyway?”

The adman shrugged. Damned if he knew. The lad was a font of trivia, some of which was even occasionally useful. Uncertain how they’d ended up discussing boobs and breastfeeding - it was a nausea-inducing topic - Brian wisely decided to change gears. “What do you think?” he asked waving at the papers in the lawyer’s hands.

Melanie looked down, her face flushing a little as she realised she’d rolled the pages into a tube. She hastily flattened the paperwork, smoothing it with the palms of her hands, and began perusing it.

She glanced up at Brian a few seconds later. “Kinnetik,” she murmured. “That’s a fucking brilliant name. How’d you come up with that?”

Brian shrugged modestly. “A stroke of genius,” he told her.

Melanie sized him up, narrowing her eyes. “Justin came up with it, didn’t he?” she asked in a deadpan voice.

The adman refused to feel caught out. “That’s what I said,” he insisted, instead of denying her assumption.

The lawyer laughed. “Good save, Kinney. Good save.” Then, shaking her head in clear amusement, she went back to the paperwork. “You already have a building then,” she noted.

“Yeah,” Brian nodded with a self-satisfied smirk. “An old bathhouse on Mulberry Way. Looks like a dump right now but I’ve already got people working on it.” He reached into the pile that contained the construction details. “Here, this is what it looks like now. And _this_ ,” he pointed, “is a draft of what it will look like once it’s done.”

Melanie inspected the two pictures, eyes taking in the details. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” she noted, sounding impressed. “You’ve certainly got balls.”

Not sure how to react to genuine praise from the brunette, Brian chuckled. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess,” he remarked. “I certainly haven’t had a lesbian compliment my balls before.” He had a hazy recollection of Lindsay admiring his _actual_ equipment way back when, but he hastily shoved the memory to the recesses of his mind. Not only did the memory mean nothing to him, it would only piss Mel off if he mentioned it - and be counterproductive to acquiring JKL to represent Kinnetik.

The lawyer rolled her eyes, though she was clearly amused by his antics. “A figure of speech, I assure you,” she told him. “I hope you’ve thought it through, though. A place like that could potentially harm your chances with a certain type of client.”

Brian nodded in understanding. “I’m aware. But I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not. If a client can’t look past that and appreciate my professional ability, it’s more their loss than mine.”

“Good principles,” Melanie admitted. “I hope it works out for you. Now let’s see the employee contracts you’ve sketched out, so we can finish the lot.”

Brian pointed at a blue folder that held Cynthia’s paperwork. “In there. Should be all in order.”

The next hour and a half was spent going over every little detail of both the employee contract and the standard client contract, to be modified as needed. The process was fairly straightforward for Brian, as he had been involved in preparing such contracts for years.

Once they were done with all the clauses and modifications, Brian bid Melanie a good day and left the law firm with a spring in his step - an unusual occurrence after having spent time with Melanie.

He stopped for a Chinese takeaway on the way to the loft, remembering Theodore wasn’t overly fond of his usual Thai - he had to butter the man up if he was to give in to Justin’s nagging and tell Ted about Michael’s blunder with Ben. Shortly thereafter, as he slid open the metal door to the loft, Ted was in the process of hanging up the receiver to the landline, almost bent double with laughter. His eyes dancing, he gestured at the phone, gasping between chuckles, “That was DC. He said to tell the _boyo_ that he and Norma have manufactured an additional six inches for your office - you should be able to squeeze in both your big and little heads now.”

It took Brian a moment to make sense of the message; Ted was laughing so hard that he was mostly unintelligible. “As if either of my heads is that _little_ ,” Brian huffed once he got it. Shit, he chastised himself; he should’ve known better than to take the bait - now his friend was creasing up even more, tears running down his face from laughing so hard. If he said anything else, it would just add fuel to the fire, so he stalked over to the counter in affronted silence and set down the bags of Chinese food.

While Ted disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to get his laughter under control and wash his face and hands, Brian removed the containers of orange chicken, rice, and vegetables and set everything on the table along with plates and chopsticks. Theodore reemerged as he was taking six bottles of Tsingtao beer from the last sack, placing two on the table and the spares in the fridge. The beer had been a last-minute addition to his order, the adman hoping the alcohol would make the upcoming conversation a little less awkward and more palatable.

Fucking blond brat and his unreasonable demands, he groused to himself, prying the cap off of a bottle and handing it to Ted. Unfortunately, the older man’s newly restored sobriety was destroyed the moment they made eye contact, a giggle escaping, followed by a strangled “inches,” and then a hiccup.

“For fuck’s sake,” Brian growled, motioning to the beer, “put a stopper in it.”

Ted complied, looking away from Brian and taking a long swig of the hoppy drink. Keeping his gaze averted, he managed to eke out, “You got Chi-” hic “nese?”

Brian shrugged. “It was that or Thai.”

A smile forming on his lips, Ted glanced at Brian again. “Brian Kinney gives a shit,” he teased. “He knows what I like to eat.”

“Shut up and eat, or I’ll dump this down the garbage disposal,” Brian threatened, “and replace it with the spiciest thing the local Thai hole in the wall has on the menu.”

“Uh-huh.” Ted smothered a laugh as he sat down.

Neither man said anything for a couple of minutes, Ted actually eating the food while Brian moved his around on his plate, searching for a way to broach the dreaded topic. “I, uh, could use a second opinion,” he made his opening gambit.

“Yeah?” The older man deftly secured a piece of the chicken between his chopsticks before looking at Brian. “What about?”

“It’s about Cynthia, so you’ve got to keep mum.”

His brow creasing in concern, Ted murmured, “Of course. She’s not sick or anything, right?”

“No, nothing like that,” Brian hastened to reassure him. Fuck, for a man who could normally rely on a smooth delivery, he was making a complete hash of this. “I wouldn’t usually get involved, but I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

“Hurt how?”

Picking his words carefully, Brian related, “Cynthia has this on and off boyfriend that she hasn’t seen in a while, but the other day she mentioned that he had called. I think they might be planning to hook up again.” Christ, Ted was going to think he was turning into some kind of namby-pamby lesbian. Since when did he give a fuck about someone’s ‘significant other’? He literally had no clue if Cynthia was even seeing anyone. Then again, he had vetted the professor for Theodore, so maybe the piffle he was spouting was somewhat believable.

Rather than looking startled by his out of character behaviour, Ted merely observed, “Cynthia seems like someone who usually exercises sound judgement. Where’s the harm in her seeing the guy? As long as he’s not on the lam or addicted to drugs or something.”

It didn’t help, Brian thought, that his assistant was so level-headed. Incredibly, his cobbled-together tale didn’t seem to be stretching the bounds of Ted’s credulity, so he pressed on. “The thing is, when the sometime boyfriend stopped by Ryder Advertising to visit her a few weeks ago, I saw one of Cyn’s work pals hit on him as he was leaving the building. From what Cynthia indicated later that day, she had no intention of seeing him again - he’d done something to get her dander up - so I shrugged it off. Why stir up trouble between her and her work friend? It’s not like I wanted to intervene in her personal shit anyroad. But now, if she’s going to see the guy again, maybe I should tell her.”

Ted hmmed non-committally.

Fuck. He was going to have to spell it out. “I _don’t_ do relationships, so I really can’t decide how to proceed. What about you?” he asked, looking at Ted inquiringly. “Would you want to know if someone made a pass at Ben?”

Ted quirked an eyebrow at Brian’s emphatic declaration regarding relationships but made no comment. Instead, he silently mulled the question over for quite a while before tilting his head and meeting Brian’s eyes. “I suppose I would want to know something like that,” he finally said. “Especially if it was my friend.”

Brian nodded, pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth. Damn, he had half hoped that Theodore would just dismiss the conversation and be done with it.

Gathering his courage to say the next words, he was interrupted by his friend’s next sentence. “What about you, Brian? Would you want to know?” he asked.

The adman snorted. “Now that’s a stupid question if I ever heard one.”

“Not really,” the accountant shrugged, face sombre. “Imagine if Justin-”

“Justin and I aren’t together,” the younger man interrupted. “Nor were we ever, not like that.”

Ted raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Manfully disregarding his friend’s skepticism, Brian continued, “Besides, we were talking about you, not me.”

“Were we?”

Brian halted. “Uh, I mean…” he trailed off, unsure about how to continue. He really didn’t want to have this conversation.

The older brunet sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just say it, Bri. Whatever you feel I should know, say it.”

The ad exec watched the resigned expression on his friend’s face and realised he hadn’t actually been very stealthy about his questions. Ted probably already knew what had happened and was just waiting for the confirmation. His provocation about Justin was most likely just a stalling tactic.

Bracing himself, Brian looked straight into Ted’s eyes and blurted out, “Michael made a pass at Ben.”

The accountant released a pained breath, face twisting into a grimace. Brian hoped he wouldn’t start crying; he’d have no idea what to do with a blubbering Ted.

His friend surprised him, however, by how quickly he got a handle on his emotions. He took a deep breath, shoved aside the now lukewarm beer, and wiped at his face half-heartedly before meeting Brian’s gaze again. “You got something strong in that liquor cabinet of yours?” he asked him in a raspy voice.

The adman jumped up, glad for something he could do that didn’t involve hugging or whispered platitudes. He poured the man two healthy inches of his best Beam - the poor sod deserved it - and brought the glass back over.

Ted downed it.

“Hey! What’s wrong with you?” Brian snapped. “You don’t just throw back a tumbler of whiskey that good.”

The other man huffed. “What’s wrong with me?” he growled. “One of my best friends made a pass at my boyfriend, you asshole.”

The younger man shut his mouth, swallowing down the insults that appeared readily on the tip of his tongue. “S’rry,” he mumbled indistinctly, looking out of the loft window. He knew he should’ve kept his conk out of it, but Justin was such an insistent do-gooder he wouldn’t leave it alone. “Shouldn’t have told you.”

“No!” Ted disagreed. “I’m glad you told me, just… are you sure that’s what happened? I mean, maybe it was just a misunderstanding,” he suggested with a hopeful expression on his face. Though the empty tumbler in his hand implied he didn’t give much stock to the possibility.

Brian sighed. “Justin and I saw it happen, Ted. There’s no way we misunderstood the situation, trust me.” He paused before continuing, “He - uh, Mikey - he wasn’t nice about it.”

The accountant shook his head in disbelief. “Of course he wasn’t,” he said resignedly. “I mean, he’s been a dick to you for ages; I should’ve expected it would soon transfer to the rest of us.”

Feeling more and more uncomfortable with the conversation by the minute, Brian stood up to refill his friend’s glass - pouring one for himself while he was at it. “Now don’t just neck this one,” he warned Ted as he handed him the tumbler.

The older man rolled his eyes but did only take a small sip as the loft fell into an uncomfortable silence.

An hour, three glasses of Beam, and exactly five words later - if you could count _I’ll, uh, yeah, thanks, and hmm_ as words that is - there was a knock at the door, and Emmett’s enthusiastic voice filtered through.

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in!” the queen trilled. “Or I’ll huff and puff, and blow your house in."

Brian slid the door open forcefully. “Who are you calling a pig, Honeycutt?” he snarled, perhaps a bit too harshly, but being compared to that bloody sow of Aunt Lula’s was getting old fast.

The tall man looked a little taken aback. “O-kay,” he said with hands raised in an apologetic gesture. “I come in peace; I’m just here to chat about the gala Teddy called me about.”

The adman hurriedly waved him in. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Come on in before you shout it at the whole neighbourhood.”

The younger man took off his fluffy violet winter coat and hung it on the coat rack next to Brian’s own, causing the label queen to wince. There'd better not be any fucking purple hair on his Vince Camuto.

“I’ll have you know, Mr Kinney,” Em told him, “I _can_ keep a secret.”

“You’re not the only one,” Ted muttered from where he was sitting on the couch, nursing his fourth glass of Beam.

Their flamboyant friend raised his perfectly plucked eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Ted just took a sip from his drink, shrugging half-heartedly.

Brian forced himself not to roll his eyes. “Ignore him; he’s drunk,” he informed the tall southerner.

The accountant shot him a look before he obnoxiously knocked back the rest of his tumbler. “Bite me, Kinney.”

Emmett’s head swivelled between Brian and Ted. “Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re acting weird. Did you two fuck or something?”

Brian sputtered. “What? Are you out of your fairy mind, Honeycutt?”

The queen waved his hands around exasperatedly. “Well then, what happened? Teddy’s not normally this grumpy.”

Ted sighed, heaving himself up. “Don’t mind me, Em,” he told his friend. “I’m just in a bad mood. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Emmett looked bewildered. “But I thought-”

The older man interrupted him. “I have to see a man about a chair,” he told them vaguely as he began putting on his winter attire.

Brian chuckled. “You do that.” He didn’t know which one of the two was supposed to be Michael, but for his best friend’s sake, he hoped he was the ‘chair,’ while Ben was the ‘man.’ If it was the other way around, it could very well be detrimental to Mikey’s health.

Ted was already almost out the door, when he paused, turning back around to look at Brian. “Um, Bri?” he asked.

The younger brunet tilted his head questioningly. “Yeah?”

“That thing about Cynthia-?”

The adman shook his head. “Made it up; don’t worry about her.”

“Right. Good.”

As Ted disappeared down the stairs, his footfalls rather erratic, Emmett voiced his concern, “Uh, should Teddy be driving wherever he’s going? He seems a little unsteady on his pins.”

Brian reached into his slacks and fished out a key ring, the keys and the attached phallic charm jangling as he tossed them on the counter. His friend had been in such a brown study that he didn’t even notice when Brian got up, sauntered over towards the door, and extracted his keys. “Theodore won’t be driving anywhere,” he grunted, “and by the time he either calls a cab or walks over to Liberty Avenue, he’ll have sobered up some.”

Em stared at him for a beat, mouth part way open, before he pressed the palm of his right hand against his chest and dramatically intoned, “You so care about Teddy. You-”

“Can it,” Brian ordered. Christ. It was almost like the flamboyant queen was echoing Theodore’s earlier claim. Just because he was observant - and looking out for his employee’s well-being; after all, he only had two staff members - that didn’t mean he was some kind of sentimental, dewy-eyed lesbian.

“Pshaw. I can see the gerbils scurrying around as you try to convince yourself that you were only acting out of self-interest, Bri. It won’t work, though,” he claimed, sashaying over to the counter and perching himself on one of the kitchen stools. “I’m on to you.”

Along with almost everyone else, Brian thought sourly. When had he become so easy to read? He eyed the bottle of Beam thoughtfully; although Theodore had made a significant inroad, there was still plenty left. Maybe a shot - or three, whatever it took - would loosen Emmett’s lips in regard to that _Bob_ fucker. Carrying the premium-grade alcohol, he ambled over to the liquor cart, grabbed a couple of clean tumblers, and headed toward the other man. He set the glasses down on the counter, immediately pouring amber liquid into one of them. Waving the bottle at Em, he started to offer, “Bour-” but halted mid-word, appalled by the bright pink tote bag from which the other man was removing a notebook. “What the fuck is that?” he blurted.

“Isn’t it marvelous?” the southerner trilled, holding the bag out so Brian could see it better. “It’s just a knock-off - I could never afford a genuine Vuitton man purse - but it matches my coat so well that I had to have it.”

Momentarily forgetting all about his intentions to butter up the man so he could milk him for information about _Bob_ , Brian snorted. “A _purse_ is a woman’s handbag, Honeycutt. That one’s _pink_ and it’s hid-” Taking heed of the way Emmett’s eyes had narrowed dangerously, he almost bit his tongue in half as he abruptly stopped speaking.

The colourful queen glared at him for a few seconds before sniffing dismissively. “As if someone like you would have any idea what constitutes fashion. Your clothes are boring, Bri.”

“What?” Brian squawked. He was the most stylish fag in the Pitts, dammit.

“He’s right, boss,” Cynthia agreed, walking through the still-open door, having returned from her insurance policies adventure. “Your suits are always impeccably tailored and fit you perfectly, but your sense of colour is so monochrome - everything is a shade of grey or black, with a white shirt.” Sauntering over to the two men, she paused to admire Emmett’s shoulder bag. “You should at least vary your shirts with another colour, like the vibrant shade of pink used for this man purse,” she suggested.

“You’re out of your cotton-picking mind,” the brunet stud muttered, shooting an affronted look at his secretary.

Cocking his head inquisitively, Em challenged, “Afraid to wear the so-called _feminine_ hues associated with fags?”

Brian huffed. No way would he confess that the flashy queen might be right.

“You think you have the queers in this burgh hankering after you now,” Emmett husked, “I bet they’d be lined up around the block waiting to service you if you had the balls to experiment with colours and patterns, even just a little bit.”

Huh, Brian mused. It might be worth trying, if it would work on the blond brat. His speculations were interrupted by Cynthia, who picked up the tumbler of bourbon he’d poured, and knocked it back. “Ah, I needed that,” she sighed. “It’s exhausting dealing with insurance agents; they’re so anal about every little detail.”

“You should’ve had Teddy go; I bet they would’ve got on like accountants on fire,” Emmett commented half-seriously, half-jokingly.

“Ted had to stay here and deal with the crew at the bath- uh,” Cynthia stumbled to a stop.

“Pish, honey. Brian spilled the beans yesterday at the gym.” Emmett cast a meaningful glance at the adman, boasting, “Like I said, I can keep a secret. I haven’t told a soul.”

“Whatever.” Brian shrugged, mocking, “you can let your inner gossip queen loose and satisfy all the curious queers, Honeycutt.” There really was no need to keep his purchase of the bathhouse secret any longer, now that it belonged to him. It took all of his forbearance, however, not to direct a scowl at Emmett - that would make it difficult to pry information about _Bob_ out of the gossipy southerner - but he was determined that he would pay the man back for his nonsensical comment at Ript about Brian’s _perfectly toned arse_ getting rounder. Earlier this morning, on his way back from breakfast at the diner, his nose had started running, which he put down to the cold weather - but now he felt a tickle in his throat. At least he had a rational explanation for how the swishy man had gotten the better of him the day before, he thought - his body must’ve been gearing up to fight off a cold, or maybe the flu. As he thought that, the tickling sensation grew stronger, and he turned his face to cough into the inside of his elbow.

Emmett leaned back. “You’re not getting sick, are you?” he inquired suspiciously.

Brian rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he claimed, even as a stronger cough welled up.

“ _Riiight_ ,” Em drawled, scooting his stool away from the older man. “Some kind of crud is making the rounds of Liberty Avenue.” Slashing the edge of one hand dramatically across his throat, the willowy man professed, “And I can’t afford to quit Torso till I get my party planning business going. I swear, if one more flat-arsed fag walks into the store and asks me where the booty enhancing, padded briefs are, I’m going to quit on the spot. I’m fed up with explaining that Torso doesn’t carry padded underwear, butt pads, or butt extensions of any shape or colour - that they need to toddle on down to the sex shop, which has products to meet every need. So,” he waved a hand at Brian, “you’d better keep your germs to yourself, Bri.”

“For fuck’s sake,” cough, “I’m not sick.” the adman expostulated, doing his utmost to suppress yet another cough.

“You will be, if we don’t put a stop to that coughing,” Cynthia stated, her concern evident. “Ted and I can pick up the slack with some things, but we can’t meet with potential clients or dream up ad copy. Have you taken anything - aspirin, Tylenol-”

“Justin’s allergic,” Brian interposed before clamping his mouth shut. Shit, this incipient head cold was really interfering with his brain-to-mouth filter.

Cynthia looked at him in astonishment. “To both of those?”

“Just the Tylenol,” Brian muttered reluctantly. With Justin freelancing for Kinnetik, it might be good for his assistant to have that information. “It’s irrelevant, though; I haven’t restocked since the burglary.”

Apparently taking pity on him, Emmett hopped off his stool and bustled over to the fridge. “I’ll just warm up some milk and stir in a tablespoon of honey.” he offered. “That’ll help you feel better in no time.”

“There’s just one problem with that.” Cynthia advised before Brian could speak.

Em raised his eyebrows in question.

“No honey,” the blonde clarified.

“I could just nip down to the corner market,” the southerner offered. “It really is the best cure-all.”

“Sit down, Honeycutt.” Brian ordered. “I’m hardly at death’s door. The honey-milk thing can wait.” Privately, he thought a shot of Beam or a doobie - maybe both - would be more effective.

“I’ll go buy some honey as soon as we finish our meeting,” his secretary intervened.

Emmett shot a dubious glance at Brian before turning back to Cynthia. “You’ll see that he drinks it, right?”

“Of course,” she promised. “Otherwise, he’ll probably try to drown his cold in bourbon.”

Bloody woman knew him too well.

“Take a look at these, boss.” Cynthia redirected his attention, gesturing toward the photos and colour swatches Emmett had spread across the counter. “If you go with these ideas for the opening do, the attendees will be abuzz about your new agency for months.”

Brian arched an eyebrow as he picked up one of the glossy pictures and studied it.

“You want something avant garde, but elegant, right?” the younger man babbled nervously when the adman didn’t say anything. “A waitstaff of leather daddies, twinks, dykes, and drag queens dressed in their everyday attire may not seem very sophisticated, but I really think it would work. Most of these people are professional caterers; they know what they’re doing.”

Brian still didn’t utter a word.

“Teddy said how you want your business to exude sex,” Emmett rattled on, beginning to sound desperate. “What would suit a bathhouse better than the very people who frequented it in the past? Well, okay, not the dykes,” he amended, “but-”

“Not bad,” Brian finally commented, a slight smile on his lips. It was sheer genius, but he refused to tell his friend that - he deserved a little payback for the gym incident.

The flamboyant man, however, knew exactly what that Kinney-speak meant. Bouncing up and down, he crowed, “You like it!”

“Calm the fuck down,” the brunet remonstrated. “Your idea needs refining.”

Nudging the stool closer to Brian, evidently no longer worried about the danger posed by stray germs, Emmett resumed his perch next to the advertising exec. For the next hour and a half, based on a guesstimated number of attendees, the three of them discussed refreshments, music, and decorations.

“Plan for enough hors d'oeuvres and drinks to feed half again as many guests,” Brian ordered. “You never know who might show up at the last minute, and I’d rather we end up with an excess of food - we can send it home with the waitstaff, if need be - than run short.”

“What about any extra drinks?” Em queried.

“The nonalcoholic stuff can go with the food,” Brian decided. “We’ll store any unopened alcohol - this is top shelf stuff, after all - for the next occasion.”

“If the event’s a success, there won’t be much left anyway,” Cynthia remarked.

“That’s the goal,” the adman agreed. “Let’s keep our guests well lubricated and drum up plenty of business.”

“You’ve calculated for each of the invitees to bring one or two guests?” Emmett requested confirmation.

“Yes, they’re included in the ‘half again as many,’” Brian verified, growing a bit impatient. They’d already covered this, hadn’t they?

“Staff too?” the southerner inquired, his blue-green eyes glinting with devilment.

“No limit.” Brian shrugged. He planned to personally ask Debbie, Michael, and Vic - he wasn’t sure he would’ve survived his teen years, never mind reached the point of opening his own company, without them. He’d also be issuing in-person invites to Lindsay and Melanie, even though the bulldyke lawyer, and her partners at JKL, would receive invitations through the mail. “You’re welcome to invite friends too, Honeycutt.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asking for myself” - Emmett flapped a hand at him - “I’m sure everyone from our little ‘family’ will be there.”

Brian narrowed his eyes, which were growing more heavy-lidded by the moment - fucking cold - at the younger man.

“I was just thinking of Baby, and how, you know, he might want to ask _someone_ besides Daphne.”

“He’s welcome to ask that Asian kid he works with.” Brian purposely misunderstood - this wasn’t how he’d intended to bring up Bobby Boy. “In fact, you should check whether the Asian and Kiki would like to earn some extra money as part of your crew. They’re experienced waiters; well, Kiks is,” he amended, recalling how the lad hadn’t had a clue about making an Americano, just this morning.

“Hmm, I was thinking more of the ‘blue’ fellow,” Em mused.

Brian stared at the queen in bemusement. What the fuck did that mean?

Cynthia, whose head had been swivelling between the two men, questioned, “Baby? That’s Justin?”

At Emmett’s nod, she probed, “Blue? Is Justin’s friend depressed?”

“Oh! No, I meant he wears blue a lot,” the southerner clarified, his eyes widening in feigned innocence.

The brunet snorted. Emmett was about as ‘innocent’ as those tricky opossums that proliferated down south.

“He says it brings out the blue in Baby’s eyes,” the queen continued.

Although he knew it would be better to overlook Em’s mischief-making, the adman couldn’t refrain from taunting, “Who does that kind of shit - deciding what to wear based on someone else’s eye colour? Tween girls?” As he spoke, he was already contemplating what he could wear to compete with fucking Bob - blue was not his best colour.

“Bo- that is, the guy is apparently very _stimulating_ in blue,” Emmett commented. “Or so Baby says. I’ve haven’t gotten to watch them in action… yet.”

Brian’s nose chose that moment to start dripping, so he hastily rose from the table to get a box of Kleenex. He had to grab a roll of toilet paper instead, since facial tissues were another thing he’d forgotten to restock. Fuck, he groused to himself as he returned to the kitchen area, there was no way he’d succeed in tantalising the blond boy if he had a bright red nose and sounded like a foghorn.

He blinked in confusion as he overheard Cynthia and the gossipy queen chattering about modeling women’s shoes. How had they gotten onto that topic in the short time he’d been in the bathroom? “Unless you have any other _relevant_ questions about the _gala_ ,” he barked at Emmett, “we’re done here.”

“Such a tetchy old bear,” the flamboyant man teased as he gathered his things together and put on his fluffy coat - which had, naturally, shed violet fuzz all over Brian’s peacoat. “You’ll feel loads better as soon as you try the honey and milk concoction, Bri.”

“I’ll go buy that honey right now,” Cynthia declared, donning her coat and preceding Emmett out the door. “I’ll be right back, boss.”

As the colourful queen slid the door shut behind himself, Brian overhead him saying something about ‘teaching the lads to walk in heels.’

What lads? Brian wondered as he sauntered over to the drinks cabinet, convinced that a shot - or two - of whiskey was what he really needed to combat this head cold. His mind flashing back to Debbie’s garage sale, he remembered how fucking hot Justin had looked in a corset and low heels. Christ, he had to seduce the boy soon or his balls were gonna wither and fall off, they were so damned blue.

 

Anxious to get to Debbie’s and work with Brian on the boards for Ted’s firm, Justin had been keeping one eye on the clock ever since he’d started his shift. This would be his first official job for Kinnetik, well, excepting the logo, but the teenager considered that more fun than actual work. Plus, he was eager to see Brian, and not only to find out what - if anything - had happened with Ted.

Still irked about Harry being a no-show the previous evening, Justin wanted to talk to him before he left and find out what was up. He was just approaching the counter, where Harry was brewing a fresh pot in the newly arrived coffee machine, when Kiki pre-empted him, stomping out of the break room in her high heels, an irate expression on her face. “You’re in a heap of trouble,” she declared, planting herself next to Harry. “Where the fuck were you last night? Not only did you leave me in the lurch, you also took unfair advantage of Sunshine. The kid ended up working an extra half hour to help me out.”

A sheepish look on his face, Harry confessed, “I fell asleep when I got home from college yesterday and slept for twelve hours straight. I called Deb this morning and apologised. She said I could make up for it by working a double shift today, what with the flu decimating the waitstaff. I was here this morning.”

“You don’t know how to set the alarm on Mr Carmine?” Justin asked in amusement. The bloke took every opportunity to show off the new cell phone he’d acquired on Black Friday.

“I accidentally left my phone in the garage, in _màu đỏ to_ ’s saddlebags. I thought I wouldn’t conk out for more than a couple hours,” Harry protested as he turned away from the coffee machine, which was now percolating away. “Honest!”

Carefully repeating in his head the way Harry’d pronounced the name of his beloved moped - it had to be something embarrassing given how reticent he was about it - Justin asked with a sly grin, “Have you checked your messages?”

“I forgot to turn Mr Carmine off. The battery was dead this morning, so I left him charging at home.”

“ _Him_? Are we talking about your mobile or something else?” the blond lad joked.

“My cell, of course,” Harry replied with a mischievous grin. “The other item’s battery-operated.”

A guffaw escaped Kiki, the tranny shaking her head ruefully. “It’s impossible to stay mad at you, you cheeky rascal.”

Giggling, Justin reminded himself to take another look-see for his lost _BOB_ later on _,_ although _not_ while Brian was around. “You’re not going to feel so smug when you find out who was at the diner last night,” he informed Harry.

His eyebrows drawing together in consternation, his co-worker almost whined, “That was last night?”

“Yeah, you know,” Justin teased some more, “Wednesday, which comes before Thursday.”

“Shit,” Harry moaned, “Syd’s gonna think I’m a total doofus. I had it in my head that your study session was tonight and that my favourite pom-pom girl would be showing up soon.”

“You’re wooing _the_ _princess_?” Kiki cackled. “You don’t stand a chance, boy.”

Taking pity on the woebegone Harry, Justin suggested, “Give her a ring on the diner’s landline. Otherwise, the longer you wait, the more ticked off she’ll get - Syd practically gave herself whiplash last night, craning her head around looking for you.”

“Crap.” Harry trudged over to the wall phone, muttering excuses. “My mobile fell into the toilet. Fuck, no, she won’t believe that. My-”

Kiki leaned against the counter, making no bones that she’d be listening in to Harry’s side of the conversation. “Get a move on,” she encouraged Justin. “I’ll fill you in on whether the princess reads Hazza-Bear the riot act.”

The blond giggled, knowing how that pet name got to Harry. Apparently, the bloke’s mum had called one time and asked for Hazza-Bear; when Kiks had turned around and blared, “Hazza-Bear, your mummy needs to speak to you!” the Asian looked absolutely horrified. Delighting in his reaction, Kiki liked to rag him with that moniker at every opportunity.

Less than a minute later, Justin had his coat on, his backpack slung over one shoulder, and was out the door. He paused briefly, a bit disappointed when he didn’t see Brian’s jeep idling nearby; he’d half expected the man to be waiting to give him a lift, and to again try to lure him over to the loft for a night-long fuck. Justin was already weakening on that front, both because he was constantly horny and because there was no one else as tempting as the sexy brunet.

The lad set off down the sidewalk at a fast walk; he would’ve preferred to jog, but the slick surface was too treacherous to accommodate that kind of speed, and the illumination from the lamp posts became more sparse as he cut away from Liberty Avenue towards Debbie’s more residential street. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up on his keister, like that poor fellow Carl had mentioned a couple days before, the one who apparently resembled Brian. Justin snickered as he imagined it _actually_ having been his former lover - he could picture perfectly the look of affront on the man’s face.

He still had a smile on his face as he reached the cleared sidewalk in front of Deb’s house. He frowned a little as he worried that Vic might have been the one to shovel the snow; the older man still tired easily after his debilitating bout of diarrhea earlier in the week. Maybe Michael had stopped by? For all that the guy had been an assistant manager at the Big Q for years, he seemed to have very little control over his own schedule and, as a consequence, Justin never knew when he might pop up at his mum’s house. If it wasn’t Michael, it must’ve been Debbie - according to Harry, she’d left the diner at two o’clock because of a last-minute request for help with baked goods for some shindig at Our Lady of Fatima church. Besides, he reassured himself as he trotted up the walkway and unlatched the front door, she’d have scolded Vic unmercifully if she’d caught him outside working up a sweat in the icy, windy weather.

The teen stumbled a little, the toe of the trainer on his right foot catching on the doorsill as he entered the house. When he looked down, he realised that the sole of the shoe was coming loose from the upper. “Fucking great,” he fumed as he stared at his sneakers - he now had a growing hole at the toe of his left shoe and a flappy right shoe. He briefly considered borrowing someone else’s trainers, but he was stumped as to who would have them in the right size. Not only was he height challenged - he heaved a despairing sigh - he also had a smaller than average foot. He’d have to hope that either some Krazy Glue or duct tape would hold the flappy one together until he and Em went shopping on Saturday. He didn’t care if the sneaker looked odd while he danced on Friday night - the shoes were already so ratty that it wouldn’t make much difference, and by Saturday night he’d have acquired another pair.

“Sunshine, is that you?” Debbie shouted from the kitchen, breaking Justin out of his morose thoughts about footwear.

“I’ll be right there!” he yelled back, hanging up his damp jacket at one end of the coat rack so it would dry out better. Hefting his backpack off the floor, where he’d placed it while pondering his shoe dilemma, he headed to the kitchen.

The moment the blond stepped into the kitchen, Debbie enveloped him in a big hug. “I haven’t seen you in ages, Kiddo,” she boisterously greeted the teen.

“Mmpfh,” Justin protested, his face again buried in the redhead’s bosom.

“Christ, Deb, you’re smothering the lad,” he heard Brian object. “For fuck’s sake, you see him every day.”

If anything, the motherly woman cradled him closer. “Not since yesterday afternoon,” she dissented. “I’m supposed to be that _loco parent_ thing - fine job I’m doing.”

A tabloid headline flashed into Justin’s mind: Crazy surrogate mother asphyxiates teen by clasping him to her chest! Under investigation by the police!

“Sis!” Vic intervened, “The boy’s going to pass out.”

“Well, shit, why didn’t you say so?” Debbie loosened her hold at last, leaving the teenager bent forward, hands braced against his knees as he gasped for breath.

“Christ, you’ve got a grip like an anaconda,” Vic observed wryly.

“You just have to know how to dodge,” Brian quipped.

Debbie evidently took that as a dare, embracing the tall brunet right where he was sitting - chair and all.

Vic chuckled, looking over the rim of his reading glasses. “That was foolish, ragazzo,” he teased when Debbie pulled back a trifle, Brian’s hair now disheveled.

“Fuck, Deb-” the brunet stud objected.

“Not a word out of you, buster,” the redhead cut him off. “You’re as much my son as Michael and Sunshine, and I don’t see nearly enough of you. You’re too skinny,” she added, reaching out to pinch the skin of one cheek, jiggling it with her fingers.

Justin’s shortness of breath was now caused by a fit of the giggles. It was absolutely hilarious to watch Debbie manhandle Brian. “Hey, Bri,” he greeted his former lover a little shyly. Where had that sudden shyness come from? he puzzled - he’d never been the least bit reticent around the older man.

“Jus,” the brunet returned softly, rolling his lips in, the newly formed cowlick seeming to wave hello.

The blond grinned - adorkable Brian was hard to resist.

“Let’s get started,” the brunet requested, his demeanor becoming serious. He was probably worried about being mistaken for a lesbian, Justin thought fondly.

Naturally, Justin’s stomach let out a loud rumble as he set his backpack down next to the table and bent to unzip it.

“Dinner first,” Vic interposed, folding the newspaper he’d been reading and standing up.

“Nothing for me,” Brian refused as Justin trotted over to the sink to wash his hands. “I’ve already eaten.” Close enough anyway, he reflected. Moving the orange chicken takeaway around on his plate at lunchtime counted as far as he was concerned. And then there was that warm milk and honey mixture he’d swilled at Cynthia’s urging. He felt much better since downing the gross-tasting milk, although he thought it was the shots of Beam beforehand that had done the trick. Since he couldn’t be certain which had been more effective, he planned to drink more of each tonight, to stave off any lingering germs. This time, however, he’d chase the milk with bourbon and wash away the icky flavour.

“You’ll eat,” Vic insisted, heading over to the cooker. “Sis is right; you’re too skinny.”

Shutting his trap, Brian resigned himself to eating a little of whatever it was. Vic didn’t put his foot down very often, but you’d better toe the line when he did.

“Debbie’s had both ovens tied up all afternoon, baking for the church’s bingo night,” Vic commented, “so I whipped up something simple in a skillet - Italian meatballs in a marinara sauce that we can eat on fresh sourdough rolls, along with a mixed salad.”

Maybe Vic wouldn’t notice, Brian mused hopefully, if he only ate the salad.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Vic,” Justin remonstrated. “I helped my mu-” He halted abruptly, disconcerted to realise that Debbie had become more of a mother to him than Jennifer.

“Are you okay, Sunshine?” the motherly woman immediately asked, concerned by the no doubt peculiar expression on his face.

“Uh, yeah. I just remembered something I need to do for class tomorrow.” he lamely excused the weird pause. He really wasn’t that bothered by the realisation about Jennifer, he mused; it had gotten to the point where he’d go for days without thinking about either of his biological parents. “Those meatballs smell really good,” he got back on topic, “but you shouldn’t have put yourself out like that. Even though the recipe may be simple, they’re a pain timewise.”

“I had plenty of time on my hands,” the older man shrugged. “Besides, Harley kept me company, and we worked on his language skills,” Vic added, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

He’d find out soon enough, Justin was certain - probably to his own mortification - just what new words the budgie had acquired. “What can I do to help?” he asked, his stomach growling again as Vic lifted the lid off the skillet to check that the meatballs were ready.

“Set the table, would’ya Kiddo?” Vic requested, “And grab the salad and beer from the fridge.”

The aroma coming from the pan _did_ smell appetising, Brian thought. Maybe he could eat half a meatball; that shouldn’t wreak too much havoc with his waistline.

“Let me by,” Debbie ordered when the timer went off, Vic nimbly stepping out of the way as she opened the large oven and removed two sheets of cookies, placing them on racks on the counter to cool.

Brian couldn’t help smiling as he watched the well-rehearsed movements of the siblings, Justin dancing around Vic and Deb without jostling either of them. When Justin was setting the dishes and silverware on the table, though, he accidentally nudged his rucksack, causing it to tip toward Brian.

The brunet glanced down at the backpack, tilting his head in curiosity. What the heck was that pink thing he could see through the partially opened zipper? Christ, he hoped the brat wasn’t joining the pink fad. After checking to make sure Justin was occupied with retrieving the salad, he opened the zip a little more, his jaw dropping in disbelief as he realised what he’d closed his fingers around. “Is there something you haven’t told us, Sunshine?” he snarked, the lacy undergarment with the tag still attached dangling from his fingers.

Vic nearly dropped the frying pan he was carrying to the table as he eyed the lurid pink concoction. “That would almost wrap around you twice, Kiddo,” he remarked, tongue-in-cheek.

“Oh!” Justin exclaimed, his face going an even brighter pink than the underwire brassiere, the cups of which were sticking out stiffly from the rest of the garment. “I got the most bizarre tips today, even crazier than on my first day at the diner. There was this queen who barely had enough cash to pay for her meal, so she stuffed that into my pinny as a tip. She said it was brand new and that she’d paid a pretty penny for it. She’d just tried to return it because it was a size too small, but she exceeded the return date by, like, a month. I thought I’d take it to-”

“Huh,” Deb interjected, her tone contemplative, “that looks like it might fit me.” She snatched the bra from Brian and checked the label. “44E!” she enthused. “It’s like it was made for me. I look fucking hot in pink.”

Brian hid a wince. Red hair and pink _did not_ go together, regardless of what Molly Ringwald and her teenybopper buddies had thought in that _Pretty in Pink_ movie. He’d been subjected to the damned film - and nearly scarred for life - when, a few years ago, there’d been a rerun of it right before _Dirty Dancing_. Mikey had insisted on watching both so they could compare McCarthy’s hotness with Swayze’s. Brian snorted all over again - as if that was some kind of contest.

“It’s yours,” Justin promptly said, smiling at his mum.

“Oh, Sunshine, I couldn’t,” the redhead said, even while staring longingly at the brassiere. “It’s some kind of fancy-schmancy designer brand I’ve never heard of, _Wacoal_ , and” - her eyes widened dramatically - “it has a price tag of ninety-eight dollars. That’s fucking ridiculous! I bet you could sell it for at least half that - maybe on that ‘Bay’ thingy Michael spends so much time on.”

“I want you to have it,” the blond insisted.

Debbie rose from the table and walked over to the sideboard, maintaining, “We’ll discuss it later, Sunshine. I won’t feel right about accepting if I don’t pay you at least half of what it’s worth.” Placing the brassiere near Harley’s cage on the sideboard, she instructed the budgie, who was eyeing the bright piece of lingerie inquisitively, “You keep your beak off it.”

“You could wear it on your next date with Carl,” Vic suggested slyly as Deb sat back down. “You’d be bound to get laid then.”

“Christ,” Brian scoffed as everyone sat down and served themselves, “don’t heteros fuck on the first date?”

At that opportune moment, Harley chirped, “ _Fuck! Hellooo, Briaaan_ . _Come, Jushun_ . _Blowjob_.”

Justin, whose face was just returning to its natural paleness, crimsoned again.

“Or that.” Brian nodded approvingly at the budgie.

“Victor Grassi!” Debbie chided, a smile giving away that she wasn’t truly upset. “What have you been teaching our Harley?”

Vic smirked at his sister. “I’d say that’s self-evident.”

“So what did happen on last night’s big date?” Justin questioned.

“We had a lovely dinner,” Debbie revealed, “and Carl was the perfect gentleman the whole evening, but just as he kissed me his phone rang. He got called into work because of some case he’s working on, so he drove me home before continuing on to the station.” She sighed, “That part was a little disappointing.”

“You should’ve invited him to come over once he was free,” Vic joked. “I’ve got earplugs, and Justin’s always dead to the world after visiting with that _BOB_ fellow.”

Brian, who was leaning over to nab one of the meatballs Justin was piling onto a roll - and ‘accidentally’ brushing against the boy’s arm in the process, causing the fine blond hairs to stand up - jabbed his fork into the plate, missing the meatball entirely. His fork still bumped against the meaty object, however, flipping it off the plate and into the lad’s lap.

Justin immediately scooted his chair back, Debbie and Vic craning their necks to see where the meatball had landed. His eyes zeroing in on the blond’s crotch, Brian forgot all about the Bob fucker. Christ, the brunet thought, trying to stifle a groan, he wished he could devour the ground meat and then proceed to slurp up the tastiest balls he’d ever encountered. He finally tore his eyes away from the boy’s groin, looking up to see Justin gazing at him in amusement, his lips twitching.

“Don’t you worry none, Sunshine,” he heard the redhead cackle, “that’ll wash right out of your cargo pants. There’ll be no clue that you were once a three-ball wonder.”

Picking up the meatball between his thumb and index finger, the little shit stuck out his tongue and ran it slowly along his lips as he deposited it atop a lettuce leaf on Brian’s plate. “You wanted this?” he husked, arching an eyebrow.

Hard as nails from the sexual byplay, Brian wondered if it was possible that his dick would burst the buttons on his Armani jeans. That certainly seemed imminent, especially since he’d stupidly worn a too-tight pair - fuckers at the dry cleaner’s must have shrunk them. “What other tips did you get?” he clumsily redirected the conversation, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “You said that thing” - he gestured toward the bra - “was only one of your oddball gratuities this afternoon.”

“I’m curious too,” Vic agreed. “It’ll be difficult to _top_ that brassiere though.”

Debbie cackled at the way her brother had stressed ‘top,’ slapping him on the arm to show her approval. “You’re the first waiter or busboy to ever get a bra for a tip, Sunshine, at least in the thirty-odd years I’ve worked at the joint.”

“Mmph.” The blond lad emitted a strangled noise as he struggled not to laugh and spew food all over, à la Michael. He’d just taken a giant bite of his meatball sandwich and was now aware he’d crammed a little too much onto the roll. As he chewed and then swallowed, he reached down into his backpack and pulled out a long, colourful strip of condoms. “I know,” he joked, seeing the puzzled looks cast his way, “condoms are an alternative form of currency on Liberty Avenue. But these are flavoured - and not just with the common berry tang. There’s avocado, coffee, mint chocolate, bacon, cannabis, and even” - Justin scrunched up nose as he pointed at one of the condoms - “garlic.”

“Gross! Who the fuck would put a garlic condom on their cock?” Debbie screeched. “They’d never find anyone to suck it.”

“Cannabis is almost as bad,” Vic averred. “I once made the mistake of sucking off a guy who smoked weed every single day. “He had the funkiest spunk I’ve ever tasted.”

“Must’ve been poor quality chronic,” Brian alleged. “But even that would be better than imitation pot from sucking on a condom.”

“The coffee one might do,” Debbie said, a speculative gleam in her eyes. She reached out and tapped the ManForce one that showed a bloke nibbling on a woman’s neck.

“Erm,” Justin tentatively interceded, “I don’t think Carl would be too impressed if you wanted him to wear a coffee-flavoured condom.” Fuck, the last thing he wanted to do was again think about parental units having sex, but he had to divert Debbie before she became fixed on such an insane idea.

“What?” Brian mocked, “No PSA about practicing safe sex, Twat?”

“Quit picking on Sunshine,” Debbie defended the teen. “He knows Carl and I haven’t been out fucking everything that moves - and that we’ll be safe.”

Justin suppressed a giggle at the expression on Brian’s face; the brunet stud appeared torn between pride at his own exploits, and horror at imagining either Carl or Debbie imitating him. Then, figuring that both he and his ex needed a break from all the allusions to hetero sex, he stuck his hand into the front pocket of his cargos and withdrew a crumpled banknote, which he tossed on the table. “This was my other unusual gratuity,” he announced.

Stretching out a hand, Vic snatched up the banknote and smoothed out the paper currency. “Is the diner accepting Canadian dollars now?” he joshed once the front of the twenty-dollar note was displayed.

“Hardly,” Deb snorted. “The Pitts is nowhere near the border with the Great White North, not like Erie, and even that city doesn’t border Canada, just the Great Lake.”

“Did you get confused because their twenty is also green?” Brian wisecracked. “You couldn’t differentiate between Queen Elizabeth and Andrew Jackson?”

“Sunshine, I’m disappointed in you,” Vic joined in the good-natured raillery. “Andy’s hair is much more stylish, and the Canucks obviously haven’t updated the queen’s photo in a while.” He tapped a forefinger against the monarch’s image. “Her hair barely shows a few strands of white.”

Brow furrowed, Justin lifted the twenty-dollar loonie, brought it closer to his face, and examined it thoroughly. “I thought it was Jackson in drag,” he deadpanned.

“Touché,” Brian acknowledged, chuckling along with the siblings.

“Granted,” Debbie gasped, another guffaw escaping, “most of the diner’s customers tip with U.S. dollars, but we do get plenty of Canadian visitors, and their currency, especially the smaller coins, does sometimes get mixed in with ours in the till.” She shook her head, red curls bouncing. “When you also take into consideration that a loonie is only worth about two thirds of a U.S. dollar, I’m afraid this tip places a distant third compared to the brassiere and the flavoured condoms, Kiddo.”

“Hmm, that depends on how you look at it,” the blond averred, turning his gaze to Brian.

The adman quirked an eyebrow doubtingly.

“The Canadian who tipped me was this older guy,” Justin elaborated. “He looked kinda like a rough-hewn silver fox.”

Brian scowled. He already had to contend with that damned Bob; he didn’t need some old dude poaching on _his_ Sunshine.

“And he had this husky voice that just sent tingles down my spine, you know?”

“Sounds like me,” Vic quipped, smiling flirtatiously.

“You old reprobate,” Debbie chided fondly, placing a lipsticky kiss on her brother’s cheek.

“Anyroad,” Justin recommenced, “it was no hardship to listen to the bloke rattle on about how he’d created some gizmo to speed up automobile assembly lines.”

“Christ,” Brian complained, yawning ostentatiously. “Are you trying to put us to sleep? Who wants to hear about assembly lines that mass-produce cars?”

“Like your jeep wasn’t manufactured that way?” Debbie challenged.

“Of course it was.” The adman waved a dismissive hand. “But I don’t want to hear about how the pieces were screwed together.”

“No, you just want to screw _in_ it.” Justin aimed a saucy grin at Brian, causing him to smile salaciously in return. The brunet stud then bit back a moan as he recalled the last blowjob he’d given the teen in his jeep, and how the boy had bounced up and down on his cock afterward.

“That’s the purpose of a fuckmobile,” Brian declared, surreptitiously reaching down to adjust his hard-on, which was again straining against the denim of his jeans. His problem was compounded when he felt a sock-covered foot pushing up the hem of his jeans and caressing his ankle, just above the edge of his Timberland boots. His breath shortening, the adman momentarily lost track of the conversation.

He snapped back to attention, however, when Justin sighed, “I guess I’ll have to give Mr Gizmo a call and tell him that the advertising genius I mentioned isn’t interested in marketing his prosaic gadget in the States after all.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Brian raised a hand in a halting gesture. “Rewind a bit?” he asked the blond.

Justin pressed his lips together and swallowed the giggle that threatened to bubble up. Once he had his amusement under control, he shrugged and rephrased, “I may have told the guy that I was acquainted with the best adman on the eastern seaboard, that he didn’t need to look any further.”

While preening at the compliment to his advertising prowess - really the lad had understated his competence, if anything - Brian was also affronted by the casual way Justin had referred to their rela-

“You’re a bit more than _acquainted_ ,” Debbie cackled, rescuing the brunet from thinking that dreaded r-word. Brian wasn’t sure _what_ he and Justin were, but they sure as fuck weren’t silly lesbians who had to put a label on every damned thing.

“The Canuck believed you?” Brian queried a bit incredulously. He was the best adman he’d ever met, but… “I doubt I’d take the word of some blond kid who looked all of fifteen while eating at a greasy spoon.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Justin shrugged. “The staff and patrons at places like the diner know who’s who in the community, who does their jobs right.”

“What Sunshine said,” Debbie seconded, glowering at Brian.

Rather than get into a debate about it, the ad exec assumed, “It doesn’t really matter since it didn’t pan out.”

“Hmm,” the teenager murmured, somehow conveying his amusement with that brief sound. As he hmmed, he shifted a little in his chair and reached around to remove his wallet from the back pocket of his cargos. He then removed a business card and slid it across the table to Brian. “Mr Gizmo wants you to give him a call,” he disclosed with another cheeky grin.

“I can hardly call him cold-” Brian started to protest since he didn’t know the first thing about the guy’s automotive whatsit.

“His website’s on the card,” Justin clarified, his pinkie grazing the side of Brian’s hand, making the brunet hiss in a breath, as he used it to point to the web address listed at the bottom of the card. “He said it’s really basic, but it explains, like, how he developed the gadget and what it does.”

Brian, whose brain had short circuited at the simple touch, was only able to breathe freely when the lad removed his little finger, before reaching into his rucksack and extracting a glossy pamphlet.

“The bloke had this great laugh,” Justin smiled at the memory as he handed the brochure to Brian, “when he talked about how most people would never be able to make heads or tails out of his gizmo if they didn’t have pictures to look at.”

The adman grunted, shunting aside a tingle of discomfort at the way the blond’s eyes had lit up when he mentioned the Canadian’s laugh. Must be a touch of indigestion from Vic’s meatballs.

“I told him I was definitely one of those people,” the blond finished, with a self-deprecating giggle.

That fucking giggle should be illegal, Brian mused, resigning himself to having a boner for the rest of the evening.

After snatching the pamphlet out of Brian’s fingers and leafing through it, Debbie opined, “Christ, I’m pretty damned handy with my Vincent, but I don’t get this thingamajig at all.”

“That’s because this gizmo didn’t exist when your orange rust-bucket was assembled,” Vic teased.

“Don’t you go running down Vincent, Victor Grassi!” the redhead chastised. “It hauled your arse-”

“Got my arse hauled too,” Vic interjected with a wicked leer.

Her tirade averted, Debbie grinned back at her brother. “Vincent’s been good to both of us that way.” she guffawed, slapping the palm of her right hand against her thigh.

Brian exchanged a pained look with Justin. Vic getting his ashes hauled in Vincent was one thing, but Debbie making the Pinto quake didn’t bear thinking about. Wanting to eradicate that awful vision, the adman glanced down at the business card in front of him. His eyes almost crossed as he looked at the long Eastern European name - Polish? Czech? Hun-fucking-garian? - which actually began with the letter G but had far too many consonants adjacent to one another. Maybe Justin could help him practice the pronunciation - tickle the sensitive skin behind his ear as he enunciated it? Breathe it out against his mouth? Before his thoughts could wander too far in that direction, he needled, “Unless your _thought process_ has suddenly speeded up, Twat, you must’ve scribbled my contact info on a sheet from your order pad. I bet the _Gadget Man_ was impressed.”

Somehow managing to look down his nose despite their height difference,  the blond boy sassed back, “My thought process is operating just fine, ta. You’re the one who asked for a variety of options and said I should keep everything hush-hush.”

“Whoa!” Vic inserted, his eyes flaring with interest. “What’s the big secret?”

“Is this about the name for your agency?” Debbie chimed in. “My Michael told me how he’d given you a great suggestion, although he wouldn’t say what it was.”

The blond brat coughed into his hand as Brian scrambled for a diplomatic response. “Mikey was kind enough to drop an idea into the hat,” he allowed in a bland tone.

“Not the one you’re going with, though?” Vic inquired.

“No. Someone else came up with a bet-”

Justin hacked harder, cluing Brian in that he should put that differently, if he didn’t want an irate Debbie censuring him for overlooking Michael’s proposal. “A name better suited to the agency,” he amended.

“Sunshine!” Deb squealed. “It musta been you! You’re the only one that could top Michael!”

Vic suddenly seemed to have caught Justin’s coughing fit, the older man doubling over and wheezing into a clenched fist.

Brian simply stared at his surrogate mother for a few beats, trying to parse what she’d just said.

“Huh?” the nonplussed teenager finally replied, a horrified expression flitting across his countenance.

“Oh, for the love of Mike!” Debbie punned, cackling loudly. “Not like _that_ , Kiddo. That’s Dr Dave’s job!”

Justin sagged back in his chair, hoping his relief wasn’t too palpable. He had to smile a little, however, when he mused that he and Michael had something in common after all - the short brunet would’ve been equally aghast at the idea of _that_ ever happening.

“I meant you must be the one that came up with the name for Brian’s new firm.” Debbie concluded, turning her laser-like gaze on the adman. “So what’re you calling it, ragazzo?”

“We won’t tell another soul,” Vic promised. “Not even Michael. Right, Sis?” he pressed, placing his hand over the redhead’s.

“I have a hard time resisting when he turns those gorgeous brown eyes on me,” Debbie argued.

That _was_ Michael’s secret weapon, Brian silently concurred; his friend had been using it effectively from the day they met.

“How’s Michael gonna find out that we know?” Vic countered. “It’s not like we have to keep it to ourselves forever anyhow - just till Brian announces it.”

“Oh, all right,” Debbie folded.

“Go on,” Brian urged Justin, feeling a surge of pride. The lad was bloody brilliant sometimes.

“Kinnetik,” Debbie repeated for the third or fourth time, shaking her head in amazement as she finished devouring a second meatball sarnie. “That’s bloody brilliant, Sunshine,” she unknowingly echoed Brian’s earlier thought. “It’s such a clever play on Kinney, never mind that ‘kinetic’ thing I’d never heard of before.”

“Based on the name alone, Kinnetik will leave that numbnuts Ryder in the dust,” Brian vouched.

“I know, right?” Justin commented excitedly. “Like, how could an adman come up with such a boring eponym for their firm?”

“A what?” Debbie asked.

“An eponym just means something has been named after a person, real or fictional,” Justin explained, shrugging. “‘Kinnetik’ uses the same principle, but it’s got a hook to draw in customers. Ryder didn’t jazz up the name of his firm at all.”

Brian almost said that even Justin would have difficulty embellishing Marty’s name in a way that would appeal to clients, but he stopped himself at the last moment. The lad was too smart for his own good, and Brian wouldn’t want whatever Justin came up with to somehow make its way to Ryder. Even that talentless hack might recognise a good idea if it slapped him in the face.

The blond lad burbled on, “Another example of an eponym is Einstein’s theory of relativity, which we’ve been studying in physics. It’s way cool; I know Daph and Sydney will agree once they wrap their minds around it a little better.”

“Who’s Sydney?” Vic wondered, his brow creasing in confusion.

“That’s some cheerleader-” Debbie started to inform her brother, when Brian cut her off.

“Yeah, Sunshine,” he drawled sarcastically, shooting a dark look at the teenager, “why don’t you tell everyone _exactly_ who that blonde pom-pom girl is.”

Shit. Shit. Triple shit. Justin castigated himself. He should have suspected that his ex was earwigging his conversation last night, especially since he’d seemingly been paying such close attention to Michael’s passionate defense of some comic book hero. Justin should have known better than to fall for that ploy, since Brian had more than once affectionately derided his friend’s ‘pathetic obsession.’

“What’s going on, Sunshine?” Debbie’s shrill voice put a halt to his frantically racing thoughts. “Is that cheerleader bullying you into helping her? If she is,” the redhead threatened, pushing up her sleeves and making a twisting motion with her hands, “I’ll tie her tits in a knot so tight that she’ll forevermore be a one-tit wonder.”

“Christ, Sis,” Vic chuckled, “I can hear you issuing that same threat to Lizzie Gordon, back in the day.”

“Couldn’t have her picking on my little brother,” Deb asserted firmly before she, too, started laughing. “Besides, it got her to back down, even though she didn’t have anything to worry about - she was flatter than a pancake. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have walloped her but good, though.”

“I’d say ‘bullying’ is the keyword,” Brian stressed as the siblings’ merriment wound down. “Wouldn’t you agree, Justin?”

The teenager blanched. Brian rarely called him by his first name - he was always twat, Jus, little shit, Picasso, brat - unless he wanted to drive home a point, hard. Accepting that the brunet wasn’t going to allow him any wiggle room, he bit the bullet and confessed in a rush, “SydneythecheerleaderisHobbs’girlfriend.”

“Slow down, Kiddo,” Vic requested. “I barely caught the first syllable of that.”

“I didn’t get it either.” Deb agreed, encouraging, “We’re on your side, Sunshine. Just tell us what the problem is.”

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, the lad looked his mum directly in the eye and enunciated precisely, “Sydney. The cheerleader. Is Hobbs’ girlfriend.”

Debbie didn’t react as Justin expected; he’d thought she would let out one of her blood-curdling shrieks, slap him upside the head, berate him, and then gradually calm down. Instead, a hurt expression on her face, she asked in a soft voice, “Why couldn’t you trust me with that information, Sunshine?”

The blond boy couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so small. He’d far rather be given a thorough bollocking. Blinking back tears, he murmured, “I didn’t think you’d approve-”

“Damn right,” Vic growled, slamming a hand down on the table, and providing the reaction Justin had expected from Debs. “That Hobbs’ fucker has made your life a living hell. Why would you help his girlfriend? She must support his behaviour - or she damned well wouldn’t be with him!”

Catching the dark look on Brian’s countenance from the corner of his eye, the blond boy gazed at a spot between the two siblings so he wouldn’t have to read their disappointment in him in their faces. He found himself looking directly at Harley, the budgie immediately ducking his head beneath one wing as if he was also ashamed of Justin. “Erm,” he mumbled, “it started out as a lark, when Sydney overhead Daph and me setting up a tutoring session. The pom-pom girl butted into our conversation and went on a tear about how I’d be tutoring _her_ , if anyone. So I told her to show up at the diner - where all the fags, dykes, and trannies hang out - that same evening, figuring she’d never show up. I mean, she was, like, pretty freaked out by the idea of visiting Liberty Avenue and encountering more cocksuckers, you know?”

When Debbie and Vic nodded, the man even letting out a wry chuckle, the tension eased a little.

“Plus, we had the first real snowstorm of the season that day,” Justin continued, “so the chances of her turning up at the diner were pretty much nil.”

“She showed up despite all the obstacles?” Brian inquired, his tone holding a begrudging admiration. “She looked pretty darned familiar with the diner yesterday.”

“Uh-uh,” the teenager contradicted his ex. “Like I expected, she was a no-show.” He waited a beat before adding, “ _That_ evening. She showed up the next day instead, acting like that was when we’d agreed to meet.”

“You should’ve told her to bugger off,” Debbie inserted, still sounding sad rather than angry.

Wishing he could slide under the table and escape everyone’s scrutiny, Justin nevertheless persevered with his explanation. “I probably would’ve, if I hadn’t been so taken aback. I didn’t even recognise her at first, she was so out of place. And then, well, I kinda admired her balls. I doubt I would’ve had the guts to turn up at, like, a straight sports bar, if the shoe had been on the other foot.”

“If you were that fucking stupid - and the wannabe jocks sussed out that you were a fag - you’d probably be assaulted and left for dead.” Vic commented gravely.

“Whereas, I’ll bet all that cheerleader suffered was some ribbing from the diner patrons, and maybe a bit of unwanted attention from the biker chicks,” Debbie conjectured.

“I could tell she was uncomfortable but, really, that only made her sassier,” Justin revealed. “She ended up giving an overly rouged queen makeup tips.”

“That does take cojones,” Debbie claimed, red curls swaying as she laughed a little.

The blond lad was relieved that his mum was beginning to sound more like her usual, feisty self, although he doubted the inquisition was over yet.

Sure enough, she quizzed, “How’d you go from being impressed by the cheerleader’s chutzpah to tutoring her? Was the pom-pom girl ever nice to you before she latched onto you for help?”

“Uh, no,” Justin admitted. “That study session was pretty rough. She kept getting all high and mighty, so I told her to shove off a few different times, but then she’d make more of an effort…” he trailed off.

“Some faggot you are,” Vic quipped, a trace of amusement in his voice. “You aren’t supposed to fall for the damsel in distress routine.”

“You’d better not let her turn you straight, Sunshine,” his former lover mocked. “I can help prevent that, you know,” Brian teased suggestively, reaching out and running a thumb across Justin’s lips and leaning in as if he was going to kiss him.

Justin forgot to breathe for a moment. But then the bastard slouched back in his chair and smirked at him. Aroused and unsatisfied, the lad scrambled to pick up the thread of the conversation. “I didn’t!” he belatedly defended himself. “I seesawed between kinda liking Sydney and wanting to kick her in the butt. In the end, though, I decided to give her one more chance - tutor her together with Daph and see how it went, especially since I knew my bestie wouldn’t put up with any shit from Syd.”

“You’re too nice, Sunshine,” Debbie sighed, “just like my Michael. Always trying to help everyone.”

The boy essayed a weak smile, forbearing from rebutting that nonsensical comparison. “Um, anyway, Sydney’s really grown on me since then,” he returned the discussion to the cheerleader. “She has Dickhead Dixon frothing at the mouth, has been snubbing Hobbs, and has been pretty friendly to me and Daph. If both Daphne and Harry like her, she can’t be all bad, right?”

Who the fuck was Harry? Brian wondered, before dismissing the matter as being of no consequence.

“Our cheeky Harry?” Deb screeched. “He’ll just be after getting in the girl’s pants.”

“At least someone knows what’s important,” Brian snarked, “although why anyone would go after pussy when there’s so much prime cock around, I don’t know.”

“I’m partial to it myself,” Debbie chortled, “but my bloke has to like the other which, thankfully, Carl does.”

“Fuck, Sis, don’t give me nightmares,” Vic begged as he stood up. “Hetero sex is a complete mood killer.”

Justin’s brow furrowed in worry when Vic staggered a little, the older man abruptly looking completely exhausted. He glanced over at Brian, wondering if his former lover had noticed, and saw his concern mirrored in hazel eyes. Rising from the table, he offered, “Why don’t you let us clean up? You did all the time-consuming work of preparing the meatballs; you deserve to veg in front of the telly.”

Vic cast a glance at the wall clock, groaning, “Christ, I’m getting old. It’s not quite half nine, and I’m ready to hit the hay. I think I’ll just turn in for the night.” With a brief wave at the others, he lumbered toward the stairs, bracing himself on the railing as he climbed the steps.

“Vic’s meds giving him trouble?” Brian inquired quietly, while Justin cleared the table.

“Fucking disease,” Debbie cursed, wiping surreptitiously at the moisture that had gathered in the corners of her eyes. “You’d think the National Institutes of Health would put more effort into discovering a cure for Aids, but the jackasses in charge refuse to waste their time on ‘a gay man’s problem,’” she concluded bitterly.

Justin moved from the sink over to Debbie, enfolding the caring woman in his arms and resting his chin on the top of her head. “Is Vic worse?” he asked, his voice trembling a little despite his effort to control it. “Has the diarrhea returned?”

“No,” his mum reassured him. “Vic really _is_ doing much better. I just hate to see him so worn out. Sometimes it seems like it’s two steps backward for every step forward.”

“If you need money or something,” Brian threw out from across the table, “you know where I am.”

The blond lad shot an irritated glance at his ex. Was that supposed to sound compassionate _or something_? He was stunned when it had a positive effect on Debbie, the redhead emitting a watery laugh, smiling at Brian, and acknowledging, “I do know, ragazzo.”

 

A little later, the kitchen again spic and span - Debbie had insisted on helping before retiring to the living room - Justin carried a steaming carafe of coffee and a plate of cookies over to the kitchen table, where he’d already placed mugs, spoons, the creamer, and the sugar bowl. “Here,” he joked, trying to lighten the sombre mood that had descended on them in their concern about Vic, “use this for your sugar.” Instead of a teaspoon, he handed Brian a bright yellow, quarter-cup measuring scoop.

“Trying to sweeten me up?” came the unexpected response, following the obligatory eye-roll. “I can assure you, Sunshine,” he leered at the teen, “my cream is plenty sweet. Wouldn’t you rather have that than half-and-half?” He stood up and proceeded to pop open the buttons on his jeans, as if intending to spurt his ‘cream’ directly into Justin’s cup.

“Uh, I… I,” the blond stuttered, tearing his eyes away from the tantalising glimpse of Brian’s treasure trail, “I’ll, uh, stick with the dairy product.” He sat down carefully, his burgeoning erection pressing painfully against the zipper of his cargos.  How could he have forgotten the blatant sexuality that his former lover exuded? the boy wondered. It was fucking potent, and almost irresistible, as Brian well knew.

“Let me know if you change your mind.” the brunet advised as he sat back down. “I can produce as much as you want.” No sense in confining his manhood again, Brian decided, allowing the tip of his hard-on to peek through the opening of his unbuttoned jeans. He’d been doubting the wisdom of going commando, with even the expensive Armani denim rasping against his sensitive skin, but he was now certain it had been the right choice, given the way the blond brat kept sneaking glances at this crotch. He planned to drive the twat wild - and into his bed - before the night was out.

As he endeavoured to keep his gaze at table level or higher, Justin reminded himself that two could play this game. He slowly stirred a dollop of the half-and-half into his coffee and then licked off his spoon, hazel eyes tracking every swipe of his tongue. Next he dunked one of the pizzelles into his coffee, raised it to his mouth, and took a bite, before holding the waffle cookie out to Brian, silently inviting, ‘Want some?’

Little tease, Brian growled to himself. No way was he letting him get away with that. Scooching closer to the blond, he wrapped a hand around the back of Justin’s neck and tugged until their mouths met, the lad’s lips parting in surprise at his precipitous action. The brunet immediately took advantage, probing with his tongue and swirling it around in the warm cavern. Justin reacted by exploring his mouth in return, their tongues dancing together. Just who was being driven mad with desire? Brian wondered, moaning as he reluctantly retreated.

The lad stared at his ex through glazed blue eyes as Brian sat back, sticking out his tongue and revealing the piece of cookie he’d retrieved. The older man then made a production out of savouring the treat, before assessing, “Not bad.”

Justin pouted a little at having been outmanoeuvred so easily. “I, erm,” he cleared his throat. “I thought we were supposed to be working?”

Brian raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Is that not what we were doing?” he asked the blond. “After all, you seem to have worked up a sweat.”

The lad had to check, reaching up to touch his brow, but didn’t discover any beads of perspiration. He scowled at Brian, which only made the adman chuckle. As he searched for a way to change the subject, he remembered the idea that had hit him on the bus ride home from school. “Have you figured out how to make taxes sexy?” he challenged.

“I have a few ideas,” Brian answered, though Justin couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or just boasting. “You?”

“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Justin quipped, tilting his chin at the laptop Brian had just powered up, and removing his sketchpad from his rucksack.

“You’re the one vibrating with excitement,” he taunted, deliberately provoking the boy.

Justin deflated a little, suddenly unsure about his idea.

“C’mon,” Brian prompted. “Let’s hear it.” He didn’t expect much; the lad was a neophyte in the advertising world, after all.

The blond hesitantly opened his sketchpad, turning it to the page with his latest doodle - a couple standing in the lobby of a building, ‘Wertshafter’ emblazoned above the door. “I, uh, thought maybe a young, attractive couple is leaving Wertshafter’s after getting their taxes done? They’re chuffed about all the money they’ve saved? Maybe planning a romantic getaway?” His uncertainty - and Brian’s impassive expression - leading him to turn every sentence into a question, Justin stopped talking and waited for the adman to tear apart what now seemed like a ridiculous concept.

Great minds think alike, Brian mused wryly. The idea needed refining, of course, but that was the purpose of this brainstorming session. Clicking on the touchpad, he opened a file and turned his laptop toward Justin.

“ _Subtle sex appeal_ ,” Justin read out loud. “ _An attractive couple leaving Wertshafter’s with satisfied smiles. Maybe pan to their bedroom, where they’re planning to use their tax refunds for a delayed honeymoon._ ”

Brian gave the boy an approving nod when he looked up at him.

His eyes lighting up, clearly gaining confidence from the similarity of their ideas, Justin proposed, “Would it be more exciting, maybe, if the couple is meeting each other for the first time?”

“The bloke, in a three-piece Armani suit, could be entering the firm as the woman exits,” Brian pondered. “She’s also young, a successful professional, tastefully attired in Dolce & Gabbana business couture. The woman greets him with a friendly smile, claiming, ‘You’ve come to the right place. I just saved a bundle by using Wertshafter.’”

From that, Justin extrapolated, “Then she says, ‘Now I have the money for a beach vacation in Aruba.’”

“‘Funny thing,’ Brian replied for the young man. ‘I was just about to book my trip there.’”

“Maybe they’re right outside a travel agency in the final scene?” Justin suggested.

“Sketch the prelims for me?” Brian requested.

“Sure.” Pencil scritching against the paper of his sketchpad, the teen began rendering the first drawing, the tip of his tongue caught between his lips as he concentrated.

Christ, Brian reflected, shifting restlessly in his chair, the kid had the most tantalising tongue. Maybe the woman in the advert could have her tongue poking out like that, he mused absently. No, better if it was the man; that would appeal to the broadest spectrum - straight men, who’d picture themselves as the sexy professional in the ad, straight women, anyone who was bi, and gay men.

Justin broke into his musings, commenting, “It’s weird, you know?”

“What is?”

“I’ve never paid my own taxes; yet, here I am, helping design an advertisement for an accounting firm.”

Brian merely grunted, distracted by that pink tongue protruding a little further as the lad added some shading to the first drawing.

The blond boy grinned to himself - he knew the effect that flexible appendage had on his former lover - and yammered on about taxes. Ever since he’d talked to Emmett yesterday, it really had been bugging him that he was so dependent on his dad. He heaved a frustrated sigh. “Craig is claiming me on his taxes, so that means I’ll be ineligible for any kind of financial aid from the universities I’m applying to.”

What? Brian thought, feeling oddly disconcerted. He was so used to having the boy around that he’d never speculated that he might be sending off applications to different universities, some of which probably weren’t in Pittsburgh, much less the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. He’d have to find out which universities Justin was considering and steer him toward those which were conveniently located with the Pitts - it wouldn’t do to groom the lad to work with him only to have him leave the city.

“It doesn’t seem fair, since I have to earn the money to pay my own tuition.” the teenager groused.

Not for the first time, Brian was puzzled by the boy’s fixation on making money. While it made sense to him that Justin wanted to secure funding for his higher education, he didn’t recall him even mentioning his finances until recently - and now it was constant. What had changed? “Don’t be in such a hurry to join the ranks of taxpayers,” he drolled, waiting to see how the boy would react; “Uncle Sam will skin you alive.”

“Will I be earning enough freelancing for you for Uncle Sam to fleece me?” Justin countered. “How much are you paying me anyway?”

Brian performed some swift calculations in his head. Since one of his goals was to get the kid to drop the go-go gig, he had to live up to his promise that the lad would fare better working for him. He wasn’t sure what hourly wage Smythe was paying, but it couldn’t be more the twenty dollars; a dancer’s real earnings came from the tips. A popular dancer like Justin was probably pulling in three to four hundred dollars a night, easily, which meant he was getting eighty to ninety dollars per hour. That was too high a rate for a new, untried artist; plus, the adman was sure the boy would think he was being patronised, as if he were a charity case, and might refuse to work for him. There were other benefits he could provide, however, which would make working for him the better option. He chuckled when his little head twitched in interest - he hadn’t been thinking about _those_ benefits, but now that he was...

The brunet rose from his chair, the head of his dick seeming to scent the air as it peeked through his flies. Too bad his Armani jeans were so form-fitting, he mused; otherwise, they’d slide down his hips, letting his manhood swing free - no way would the lad be able to resist him then. With a regretful sigh, he moved behind Justin and leaned over the blond, his hard-on finding a convenient gap in the chair slats and nudging the boy’s spine through the thin cotton fabric of his t-shirt. He took the pencil from the teen’s suddenly motionless fingers, and jotted down a number at the bottom of the pad. “At that hourly rate,” he whispered teasingly into Justin’s ear, “I’ll expect you to bedazzle me with your _thought process_.”

Justin’s breathing hitched, the way Brian was draped over him making it difficult to think clearly. The amount the man was offering _was_ generous, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t realise it was less than he was making per hour at Babylon. Then again, he only worked at the nightclub on Fridays and Saturdays, and he wasn’t planning to give up that job as long as he could juggle everything. And since the money was all going into the account to pay Brian back…

His thoughts scattered when Brian nuzzled his ear, husking, “That doesn’t include the side bennies, of course.”

“Like I don’t know what _those_ are,” he somehow got out, his pulse racing. Being an employee with benefits was becoming more enticing by the moment.

“You must be psychic,” Brian murmured, stroking Justin’s arm with his hand, “to guess that you’re getting a computer loaded with the best graphic design programs.”

“I… You what?” Justin stuttered in shock, his senses overloaded by Brian’s nearness, by the fucking _smell_ of the man. He tried to swivel around to look at Brian, but the brunet’s arms held him firmly in place. “You mean, you’ll have it available for me to use at Kinnetik, right?”

“Sure,” Brian agreed, pausing for a moment to suck at Justin’s neck, “you’ll have office space, and a state-of-the-art desktop computer, at the agency. I’m talking about a laptop, however, one you can use wherever. I’ll have Cynthia order it tomorrow,” he finished nonchalantly.

He finally released Justin and sat back down, legs splayed so the blond’s eyes were drawn to the glistening head of his cock which, moments ago, had been digging into his spine. His thoughts clouded with lust, the dazed lad couldn’t find the words to thank Brian for his generosity. Christ, a laptop with that kind of software was going to cost thousands, Justin mused. He should know; he’d been drooling over them for the last three years, fruitlessly trying to get his parents to buy one for a combined Christmas and birthday present. Maybe if he visited the downstairs loo and splashed some water on his face, he’d be able to think more clearly. “Uh, I’ll be right back,” he mumbled, standing up on shaky legs and stumbling toward the downstairs washroom.

He also needed to pee, rather desperately in fact, Justin realised when he reached the loo, so he lifted the toilet seat and took aim, impatiently waiting for his erection to subside. Right as the yellowish fluid started to gush into the bowl, the door opened behind him and Brian sauntered over to stand next to him, blocking him in so the he couldn’t move when he finished urinating.

Naturally, Justin thought, both amused and irritated by the brunet’s antics, the man took his time peeing, hampered by his hard-on, enticingly waggling his cock to and fro. Feigning disinterest, the teen commented drily, “I’ve seen it before, Brian. There’s no need to wave it in my face.”

The brunet smirked. “Then why are you looking?” he teased, watching as Justin had trouble tearing his eyes away from his thick member. It seemed his efforts weren’t in vain after all, he thought.

“I’m not,” the teenager denied uselessly, eyes still fixed on Brian’s crotch.

Brian finished his business but dawdled with buttoning up his trousers. “Let’s move this upstairs,” he rumbled seductively, “and I’ll show you the most impressive employee benefit.”

Throat dry, barely able to swallow, eyes still fixed on Brian’s package, which was swelling again to full mast, Justin was on the verge of giving in. He cast about for something to help him resist - he didn’t want to succumb so easily - abruptly blurting, “Bob.”

Brian started, frowning. “No, it’s Brian,” he joked half-heartedly, hating the name that had spilled from Justin’s lips.

Even though it was gratifying to be chased instead of doing the chasing, the younger man felt bad about mentioning _BOB_ when he caught the fleeting look of hurt on Brian’s face. How would his former lover react, he wondered, when he ‘met’ _Battery Operated Brian_ ? Justin quickly suppressed an urge to laugh; he didn’t want to Brian to think he was laughing _at_ him. He kinda was, just not in the way the brunet would interpret it.

Brian shrugged, pretending indifference when the lad didn’t respond to his quip, and rapidly did up the top two buttons. That Bob fucker was good for something after all, he mused sourly; merely hearing his name had killed Brian’s erection, and eased the constriction of his jeans. They fit fine now, unfortunately.

The teen was startled out of his _Bob_ -induced trance by the sound of the bathroom door shutting. He flushed, realising he was still standing in front of the toilet, penis in hand, Brian nowhere in sight, the brunet’s question unanswered. Justin had vaguely registered it when the brunet turned around and rinsed his hands, but he’d been so busy convincing himself that he could make do with _BOB_ in lieu of Brian that he left the man hanging. Fuck.

He quickly zipped up his cargo pants, washed his hands, and returned to the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that Brian was sitting at the table, tapping away at the keys on his laptop, acting as if nothing had happened. “I’ll have Cynthia print out an employment contract for you,” the brunet said briskly.

“Uh, that’s good,” Justin acknowledged.

“You’ll keep working on the prelims?” the adman inquired, his demeanor completely professional.

“Of course, yeah.” Fuck, he hated that Brian was being so… cold. “I’ll keep working on my thought process, too,” he sallied weakly.

“If you can’t come up with something better than that lopsided K,” the brunet deadpanned, “I’ll have to rescind your contract before you sign it.”

The blond smiled, reassured by the way Brian’s tongue wandered over to his left cheek, poking against it as he finished speaking - that virtual tongue-in-cheek manoeuvre was a sure sign that he wasn’t too out of sorts.

Brian felt the usual tingling in his nether regions in response to the boy’s smile. He’d been kind of steamed up - not in a good way - when he left Justin in the loo, but that quickly dissipated when he thought about the longing way the teenager had looked at him. He’d just have to use a little patience in wooing his Sunshine back into his bed, where he’d soon ensure that the lad forget all about Boy Bob. “How about we continue with this on Saturday afternoon?” he asked casually, intentionally nonspecific about what _this_ entailed.

“Erm, I can’t. I’m working and then I’ve got plans...”

Goddammit, was Bobby Boy fucking with him again? Brian wondered, his facial muscles going rigid.

“...with Emmett.”

The brunet relaxed a little. Far better the nelly queen than Bobbit.

“I’m free Sunday afternoon, though, if that works for you.” Justin offered. “Here again?”

Sunday, Brian determined, as he powered down his laptop and stored it in his briefcase, was going to be a red-letter day. First, he’d spend time with his Sonnyboy, and then he’d concentrate on his other boy. Heck, if the munchers hadn’t finished munch- er, doing whatever, by the afternoon, he’d just take the nipper along to Debbie’s house. In fact, he mused, a sure-fire plan of seduction beginning to coalesce in his brain, he’d offer to watch the tyke until the lezzies arrived for Sunday dinner. He and the blond boy could play with Gus for a while, with Brian’s son working his usual magic on Justin. Brian would even allow the sentimental blond to rave about what a great dad he was. Then they’d pass the tot off to Debbie and Vic for some grandparental attention and a nap, while they worked on advertising campaigns. Simultaneously, Brian would drive Justin into a frenzy of lust - touching him constantly - so that the teenager would be incapable of refusing when the brunet invited him to the loft at the end of the evening.

“That’ll do,” was all he said to the teenager as he headed for the door, stopping to shrug into his peacoat.

Justin followed right behind Brian, a lascivious smile crossing his face as the brunet turned on the threshold to say, “Lat-”

The blond lad pre-empted him before he could complete the word, rising on his tiptoes, winding his arms around Brian’s neck, and pressing his lips against the taller man’s. Long moments later, after a thorough round of tonsil hockey, Justin dropped back down onto the soles of his feet, breathing hard - but not as hard, he noted in satisfaction, as the brunet.

“Later,” Justin giggled, pointing up at the mistletoe and giving Brian a gentle shove before shutting the door in his face.

 

Justin spent twenty minutes searching for his _Battery Operated Brian_ after the brunet had departed, desperate to relieve the arousal that had built up over the course of the evening. Left empty-handed and frustrated, the lad resigned himself to making do without _BOB_. It was already half eleven, and he needed to hit the hay if he was going to get any shuteye before the start of another school day.

As Justin settled under his covers, his hand gliding up and down his turgid flesh, his eyes drifted shut. Damn, he wished querulously, on the verge of falling asleep, he needed something tighter to encase his shaft. His hand stroked upward once more and then dropped to his belly, his hard-on bobbing up and down forlornly, liquid pearling at the tip. If only he’d taken Brian up on his invitation, he’d be sprawled out on the bed in the loft, the most alluring man he’d ever met ready and willing...

The boy moaned in pleasure long minutes later, a warm weight coming to rest atop his thigh and nudging against his balls. Something warm and wet licked a stripe up the column of his neck and then along his jawline before halting beneath his ear.

“Jus,” a voice breathed out between nibbles at the sensitive flesh, goose pimples rippling across the blond’s body in response.

“Hmm?” he murmured, tilting his head, encouraging his companion to explore some more.

The man obligingly nipped and sucked at the newly exposed skin, before removing his mouth and repeating, louder and more insistently, “Jus.”

Annoyed - he hadn’t been nearly ready for the delicious sensations to end - Justin slitted his eyes open and glanced down. His irritation lessened somewhat as he admired the wash of blue light across his lover’s tanned skin and his own paler colouring. Brian was draped half over him, one lightly furred leg tantalizing him as it rubbed with agonising slowness against his scrotum. “What?” he grunted.

With a final nip at the sensitive skin behind Justin’s ear, the brunet lifted his head and turned toward Justin. A wicked smile on his face, he rubbed more firmly against Justin’s balls. “Don’t you want to do something about this?” he husked. “Before they explode?”

Justin sighed, feeling lethargic and not wanting to make the effort to get both of them off. “Have at it,” he invited, gesturing toward his straining manhood.

The brunet, head propped up in the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on the bed, rolled his eyes as he stared down at Justin. “Why should I? You’re the perpetually horny seventeen-year-old. You could come from rubbing up against a tree - or just from a stray breeze,” he mocked. _You_ have at it,” he demanded, rolling off Justin and onto his back, spreading his legs invitingly.

“No way,” Justin protested. “I’ve been doing all the work lately, either fucking or riding you.”

“Since when?”

“For, like, the entire last week,” the exasperated lad retorted. “Besides, you’re the one who’s always bragging about his stamina to the gang. Prove it,” he challenged. “Climb aboard.”

“Please,” Brian scoffed, “there’s nothing to it.”

Justin merely arched one blond eyebrow and settled back against the mound of pillows.

The brunet licked his lips, his hazel eyes locked on blue ones as he reached over to the nightstand and pumped lube from the dispenser onto the fingers of one hand and then knelt astride Justin. “Want to help?” he asked, massaging his opening with the lube and slowly inserting his index finger.

“You’re doing fine,” the younger man teased, enjoying the show.

Brain winced a little as he added a second finger and then a third. “Easy,” Justin soothed him, caressing his thighs. “There’s no rush.”

The pain soon vanished, and a jolt of pleasure coursed through the brunet when he brushed against his prostate. More than ready to ‘climb aboard,’ he snagged a condom from the nightstand, tore the packet open, and unrolled it onto the boy’s thickness. He took his time about it, wanted to drive the lad wild, but Justin merely smiled sweetly at him, appearing unruffled. There was time yet, he reminded himself as he positioned himself above the lad’s cock, to make him squirm.

He grunted, feeling another twinge of pain as he started to lower himself. No matter how often they fucked, it always took a moment to adjust to the width of Justin’s cock as it breached him.

The blond caressed his lover again, wordlessly encouraging him.

Long seconds later, fully seated, Brian grinned at Justin in triumph. It wouldn’t take him long to show the lad how easy this was.

Justin’s eyes glinted with amusement, accurately guessing what his lover was thinking. “Well?” he prompted when Brian didn’t move.

“I thought there was no rush,” the brunet teased as he inched away from Justin’s body.

“There’s not,” the boy agreed, although he was starting to have trouble holding still. He removed his hands from the brunet’s thighs, letting them drop onto the midnight blue sheets.

Brian grinned again. Piece of cake. The boy would give in any moment and begin thrusting into him. He tightened his arse muscles as he plunged back down, drawing a gasp from the lad.

Justin narrowed his eyes, digging his fingers into the bed linens, endeavouring to keep his muscles relaxed.

The brunet tantalised his young lover as he moved up and down, up and down, swiveling his hips, relaxing and then clenching his muscles, varying the speed, pinching his own nipples and then Justin’s.

The teenager made Brian work for it, occasionally rewarding him with a hard upward thrust, punching a moan out of the brunet every single time, but otherwise leaving it up to him to move.

Christ, Brian thought, throwing his head back and groaning as he relished one of those infrequent thrusts, he didn’t think he could keep up this pace. The muscles in his thighs were burning now that he’d been riding Justin for what must’ve been an hour. “Jus,” he whined the boy’s name.

“You’re doing so good,” the lad praised. “You can last a little longer.”

A shiver ran down Brian’s spine at the words. Had he been in possession of any of his faculties, he might’ve complained about his lover patronising him but in the heat of the moment, the encouragement was fucking hot. “Okay,” he panted, lifting up again.

That deserved another reward, Justin decided, pistoning into his lover as the man came back down, jabbing that bundle of nerves and making Brian moan again. “Fuck, Jus.” he pled, barely able to move.

“Again,” the lad insisted, remorseless.

Sweat was pouring off Brian as he struggled to rise up again. Fuck, he hated to concede, but he couldn’t do it. His thighs were burning, muscles barely twitching as he tried to lift his weight up. “Nngh,” he whined in defeat.

“Okay,” Justin rasped. He sat up, wrapping his arms around his lover and drilling into Brian, the man emitting a continuous, high-pitched sound as Justin hit his prostate, again and again.

“Fuuuck,” Brian screamed, his whole body trembling and clenching with the effort as he came.

He clamped down hard on Justin, causing the boy to cry out, “Bri!” as he came too.

Brian collapsed against Justin, making the lad fall backward, although he kept his arms wrapped tightly around his lover, running his hands up and down the man’s sweat-covered back. “That’s definitely in the top ten,” the boy panted into Brian’s neck.

Too spent to say anything, the brunet just nodded.

When Justin’s cock finally softened and slipped out, Brian barely noticed, only twitching and moaning a little in protest.

“I’ve got you,” Justin whispered, still holding his lover as they fell asleep.

 

In the morning, Justin would wake up in the twin bed in Michael’s old room, dried come crusted on his chest, and feel bereft that Brian wasn’t actually in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Announcing Tricky Porn!  
> Kinnetik Dreams: http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=1283  
> AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793971/chapters/34225730
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	36. Chapter 36

It was early Friday morning that found Justin in the school library, sitting tiredly at Frau Rose’s old computer. As usual, he’d awakened with a boner; and this morning he also had come splattered across his stomach and chest, images from the wickedly hot dream of Brian riding him spinning through his mind. He wouldn’t be able to resist the brunet’s attempts at seduction for much longer, he’d acknowledged to himself as he stumbled through his morning routine, taking care of his woody while he showered. There wasn’t even much point to holding out, not when his body was clamouring to have its needs met. He’d just have to make sure that it was strictly a fuck buddy arrangement, that his heart wasn’t involved - he never again wanted to be crushed like he had been when Brian kicked him out of the loft.

The recollection of how Brian’s behaviour had hurt him got him to thinking about the burglary and the discussion amongst the gang a couple days ago. His ex even seemed halfway to believing that Justin hadn’t forgotten to lock door to the loft and set the alarm. During the bus ride to St James, the teenager had mulled over the day of the burglary again, looking for something that would convince Brian he wasn’t at fault. He’d much prefer to enter into a friends with benefits agreement with the sexy brunet without that still hanging over his head, or at least having cast a stronger doubt on his culpability.

Which was why he was now sitting at the slow-as-fuck computer, reading news articles and public police reports that mentioned local burglaries. Unsure what time frame to search, he’d opted for the last four months, most recent news first, and was inundated with information. He’d tried to refine the search, limiting it to home burglaries, but the bloody-minded computer didn’t clear its cache properly and spewed out the same information again, leaving him to slog through everything. He blenched when he read a few articles about a woman being stabbed to death during a home robbery - unaware that Brian had reacted much the same when his search brought up the exact same news accounts - before the burglars proceeded to systematically remove all valuables from her house and depart.

There were all types of robberies - some involving injuries, some not - including hold-ups at convenience stores and banks, home invasions, businesses burgled after hours and on weekends, auto thefts, and muggings. There was even one human interest item about a five-year-old girl’s lime green bike, complete with training wheels, a green basket, and yellow-green streamers on the handlebars being nicked from her driveway. Justin was left hoping the girl had gotten it back since he didn’t see a follow-up article.

After eighteen more minutes of combing through reports, the lad sighed in frustration. It was impossible to establish any kind of connection between the crimes or to find a pattern.

“No luck?” the kindly librarian asked, peering over his shoulder.

“I had no idea there were so many burglaries in the Pitts, every single day.” Justin heaved out another sigh. “And the computer won’t let me narrow the search parameters.”

“It is an old model,” Frau Rose agreed. “I’m due for an upgrade, but the Board of Trustees is reluctant to cough up the funds for new faculty computers. Have you tried clearing the history?”

“Yeah. I think it stuck its tongue out at me,” Justin kidded.

“Well then, let’s try the sure-fire method,” the librarian suggested, reaching out and whacking the side of the CPU with the palm of her hand.

The teenager jumped a little in surprise, but then smiled. “Hey, that got it to run the revised search.”

“It’s the best way to clear the computer history.” Frau Rose winked at Justin before looking more closely at the computer screen and pointing at the topmost result, _Gang Shootout with Local Police_. “What’s that? It looks like the incident took place last night.”

Swallowing hard - he couldn’t help but worry about Carl - Justin immediately clicked on the link to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. The news story wasn’t very long, only indicating that the shootout had occurred at a gas station in the Arlington neighbourhood and that there were injuries on both sides. It was outside Carl’s district, but an all-points bulletin had been sent out, with officers responding from across the city. “Um,” Justin muttered nervously, biting at his fingernail, “I’ve got friends with the police. Would it be okay if I used your phone to call and check on them?”

“Of course,” came the swift response. “Just press nine to get an outside line.”

After pressing nine and getting a dial tone, Justin punched in Carl’s number, growing more concerned as the phone rang six and then seven times. “Horvath,” the detective’s voice at last curtly greeted him.

Crap, Justin mused, maybe he shouldn’t have called. Given the noise in the background - he thought one of the other voices was Wen’s - Carl was really busy.

“Who is this?” Carl asked a trifle impatiently.

“Uh, it’s Justin,” the boy stuttered. “I didn’t want to bother you, Detect- I mean, Carl. It’s just that I saw the newspaper article about yesterday’s shootout, and I was worried you’d been there and that you might’ve got hurt.”

The detective’s tone warmed considerably. “You’re always welcome to call, Justin. I _was_ there, as was Wen, but we’re both fine. Wen’s just in a pissy mood because the call interrupted her night. She actually turned the air a bit blue, complaining about the Allentown police.”

The lad couldn’t quite prevent a giggle from escaping as he imagined the scary detective’s version of a rant. “All of five words?” he guessed.

“‘Morons’ figured prominently,” Horvath agreed. “She felt better after punching the door to one of the patrolmen’s vehicles.”

“Did she hurt herself?”

“Only some bruising. She left a dent in the metal, though.” Carl commented drily.

“What’d the plod do?”

“He stared at the dent in disbelief before shouting for his sergeant. That didn’t do him any good, however,” Carl elaborated. The sergeant came running, took one look at Wen, and started reading the patrolman the riot act, yelling how he should never, ever cross the scary Asian woman. The ‘little ding’ to the car door didn’t matter.”

“What happened then?” Justin questioned, giggling some more.

“Well, Wen was a bit offended by the _little ding_ remark, but she merely turned a stony glare on the sergeant.”

“I would’ve pissed my pants,” Justin admitted.

“They may have,” Carl chuckled. “There was a suspicious wet spot trailing down the plod’s leg.”

Right then, Frau Rose tapped on Justin’s shoulder and motioned toward the wall clock, where the minute hand was inching toward eight o’clock. “Um, I’d better go,” he told Carl. “It’s almost time for my calculus class. We’ve got another test today.”

“I expect I’ll hear that you’ve aced another one, son,” the detective replied.

The blond lad beamed, warmed by the reminder that Carl was proud of his academic prowess. “ _Gratias ago_ ,” he thanked the librarian after saying goodbye, hanging up the phone, and collecting his rucksack and jacket.

“ _Nihil suus_.” Frau Rose smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. “I couldn’t help overhearing your side of the conversation. I’m guessing the fearsome female detective who ‘terrorised’” - she drew air quotes around the word - “Headmaster Perkins was involved?”

“Uh, yeah,” Justin laughed, thinking about the caricatures he’d sketched, depicting Wen’s meeting with Jerkins. “I think her _effect_ on the transgressive policeman and the principal was exactly the same.”

When he turned to close the window with the results of his computer search, the librarian stayed his hand. “I’ll keep looking for you, Justin,” she offered. “See what else I can dig up.”

The teenager smiled at the helpful librarian before dashing out the door. He knew from experience that if anyone could, she’d ferret out more information. After all, she’d taught him and her other tenth grade English students how to research a topic thoroughly.

While Justin was in the St James library, Brian was exercising at home. He’d awakened feeling energised, despite getting very little sleep. When he’d gotten back to the loft from Debbie’s house the night before - unfortunately sans the blond boy, who’d worked him into a sexual frenzy - he once more forced down the honey-milk mixture, followed, of course, by a couple shots of Beam.

As he’d knocked back the bourbon, eradicating any lingering cold-virus germs, he reached down to fondle his package, which was still half erect, starting an all-night wank session. Every time he’d begun to doze off, he remembered Justin looking at him flirtatiously at Debbie’s kitchen table, or running his sock-covered foot up Brian’s calf - how the fuck could something that wasn’t skin on skin be so fucking erotic anyway? Then there had been the encounter in the downstairs loo, where he hungrily eyed the boy’s thick member. And that fucking kiss under the mistletoe - Brian thought he could still feel the little shit’s lips pressed against his. He’d lost count of the number of times he jerked off, but it was enough to make his cock sore. Fucking twat could _almost_ wear him out without even being in the loft.

As he completed a series of one-armed press-ups and switched to the other arm - barely breathing hard, Brian noted in satisfaction - he still couldn’t stop thinking about the delectable blond. He was already eager to see the kid and chat him up later in the day. Christ, he mused, I _am_ turning into a _girl_ , not wanting to go a day without seeing my...

Brian shook his head to clear it of the B-word that was trying to take up residence; he’d never call his whateverthefuck something as inane as a _boyfriend_ , even if he ever did - a shudder rippled through his toned body - grow a twat. Flipping over onto his back, the brunet glanced down and palmed his dick, reassuring himself that everything was intact, before he started doing sit-ups.

Maybe he’d get lucky, and Justin would finally accompany him to the loft… The brunet stud scowled, his plans evaporating, when he recalled that the boy danced at Babylon on Friday nights. “Stubborn little shit,” he muttered, wishing for the umpteenth time that Justin would give up the go-go gig. He’d just have to keep an eye on the lad at the club and ensure that none of the horny fags got presumptuous. In fact, he’d start this afternoon, he decided. He’d noticed that some of the diner’s patrons were getting awfully handsy with _his_ blond, so he’d show up at the eatery around four o’clock, right after the teenager started his shift to be certain no one tried to poach. Happy with his plan, Brian cheerfully continued his morning workout routine.

 

A couple of minutes after leaving the library, Justin slid into his seat, his bestie on one side and the blonde cheerleader on the other. He glanced at the clock above the door in consternation - was he somehow late? The lad couldn’t remember the last time Daph had beat him to their maths class, never mind the pom-pom girl, who usually sauntered in at the last minute. Nope, he thought, brow furrowing as he stared at the timepiece, not late; he still had six minutes until the nine o’clock bell would chime.

“Flaming heck,” Daphne whimpered, wiping sweaty palms on her grey skirt, “I’m freaked out about today’s test. If I don’t get at least a B+, I don’t see how I can possibly raise my cumulative grade to a B- or better.”

“Same here,” Sydney moaned. Justin glanced at the pom-pom girl, who looked nowhere near as confident as she normally did. Stray wisps of blonde hair were dangling around her face, and beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. “I don’t have to get a B- for the course - my parents would be okay with a C - but I really want to show Dickhead and Chris that I can succeed.” She shot a glare towards the other side of the room, where Hobbs was lounging in his chair, kicking at the seat in front of him and occasionally reaching out to poke his cowering victim in the back with his pencil.

“You’re gonna do fine,” Justin encouraged the girls. “You know this stuff. Besides, it’s the final that really matters. It counts for, like, half the grade.”

“Gee, thanks, Jus.” Daphne rolled her eyes at her friend. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“Yeah, Taylor,” Syd concurred, drilling the boy in the side with her pointer finger. “If this test goes down the pan, I can _supposedly_ still get a B for the course, even though I’ll have proved that I don’t know the material.”

“Ouch!” Justin protested, trying to evade her sharp fingernail, which had been polished a bright purple, with shiny flecks of gold in the polish. “Christ. I’ll let each of you ask me one more of those embarrassing questions, okay?”

“Puh-leeze,” Daph dissed the paltry offer. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Yeah, Taylor,” Syd reiterated, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “When we’re studying for our physics and calc finals next Wednesday, you have to answer as many questions as we want to ask, without us having to swot for them.”

“Uh-uh. No way.” Justin countered, quirking an eyebrow at the cheeky cheerleader. “You have to learn the material before I’ll answer your questions. You want to pass the exams, don’t you?”

“Oh, all right,” Sydney muttered, not sounding particularly upset. She leaned forward, grinning at Daphne. “At least we have plenty of time to come up with the best questions to make our boy blush from head to toe.”

 _Our boy_? Christ, what had he let himself in for? the lad wondered, stomach sinking.

Daphne bounced in her chair. “I’ve already got a good-”

“I suggest you put a sock in it, Chanders,” Dixon ordered, his voice cold, causing Daph to shrink down in her seat. “Unless, of course, you plan to join Ms Farley in the beauty salon.”

“Uh, no sir,” Daphne mumbled.

“That goes for the lot of you,” the calculus teacher instructed. “Can the gossip until class is over. Or,” he offered, smirking, “you can always head to eleventh-grade maths right now.”

“But I’m passing the class!” someone objected.

“Not if you keep back-talking,” Dixon retorted, scanning the room to try and find the perpetrator. “That’s against the St James rules of conduct. I’ll send all you back a year, if need be.”

Thank fuck, Justin thought when that - together with hissed threats from his classmates - shut the wanker up.

Once the room was silent, Dixon announced, “I’ve decided that we’ll start with the test today. You have half an hour to complete the quiz, and I’ll grade them on the spot. If you finish before the allotted time, hand in your test, return to your seat, and start working on the next chapter in your textbook. Borderline students who earn less than sixty-five points on the quiz will report to Ms Hearns’ class tomorrow.”

Justin noticed the full-bladdered girl jiggling her legs and squirming in her seat, although she kept her trap shut for a change.

“But-” a girl behind Justin had the temerity to protest, voice emerging in a whine. The blond lad suspected it was the budding beautician.

“No exceptions,” Dixon stated firmly, cutting her off. “Students who _are_ passing this course but score under sixty-five on the test - demonstrating a desire to skate by without studying - will enjoy the benefit of a study hour in detention from this afternoon through next Thursday. For some of you, it will be the second straight week in detention; if you _do_ want to pass this class, I suggest you engage some of your grey matter - provided you have any.”

Justin heard Daphne give an audible gulp to his left. He wished he could take a moment to reassure his best friend - there was no way she’d fare that poorly - but Dixon had turned his beady eyes on him, sneering, “You’d better be careful that you don’t fall into that group, Taylor. I have yet to see much improvement from you.”

Christ, couldn’t Dickhead at least come up with some new lines? Justin wondered, giving the teacher a mental eye-roll.

As Dixon handed a stack of tests to the student at the front of each row for them to pass back, he declared, “I’ve generously included two extra-credit problems at the end of the exam; you can earn up to ten points for each of them. To better help you prepare for the final, I’ve made them _slightly_ more complex than the other problems on the quiz.”

There were a few quiet groans at the way the instructor stressed ‘slightly,’ but no one piped up with any wiseacre remarks.

Justin immediately set to work on his test, printing neatly but nevertheless speeding through the first eight problems, and barely slowing down when he got to the bonus questions. He did wonder if anyone else would have enough time to take a stab at solving the extra-credit ones. They weren’t all _that_ difficult, the lad thought a trifle smugly - _if_ , like him, you wanted something more challenging and had dipped into the last chapters of the book, which were marked as ‘university level calculus’.

Not even twelve minutes had passed when Justin finished checking over his answers and walked up to place the test in front of Dixon. He eyed with curiosity the thin pile of papers that the man had set to one side; they didn’t look like supplemental calculus materials, but he couldn’t tell what they were. His attention was jerked back to the maths teacher when Dixon chided, “Haste makes for errors, Taylor,” sardonically adding, “as you well know.”

Sure, Justin thought, mentally rolling his eyes again. I end up with ‘sevens’ that look like ‘ones’ and nonstandard solutions. He’d learned to avoid being marked down for either of those, using computer writing and sticking to the textbook solutions.

“I’ll allow you to return to your desk and review the test before turning it in.” the instructor offered pompously.

All the boy said, carefully polite, was, “I’ve checked it over, Mr Dixon.”

“I don’t suppose I can expect _someone like you_ to be truly studious,” the instructor commented blandly.

Justin could feel a muscle jumping in his cheek, but he forced himself not to react, merely turning around and returning to his seat. Although he cracked open his textbook, he didn’t actually study, instead daydreaming about the diminutive Chinese detective putting the ‘fear of Wen’ into Dickhead.

Finding inspiration in his musings, Justin started doodling on the edge of his notebook page, losing himself in his fantasy. Soon, the page was adorned by a simple caricature of Detective Wen as Mulan - fists raised in a fighting pose and face serene.

Dixon might hold out longer than Perkins, the lad conjectured as he admired his doodle but, in the end, he’d wet his pants too. As he added a couple of final touches, the clock reached the half hour mark.

“Time’s up,” the maths instructor promptly announced.

Justin glanced around, noting that none of the other students had finished working on the test.

“Nooo,” Sydney let out a despairing groan, her pencil still scratching across the paper.

“Pencils down,” Dixon commanded. “Even Eric’s pencil is down.”

“Christ, what are we? Eleven?” an anonymous voice jeered.

“That’s about your comprehension level,” Dixon concurred, his upper lip curling in disdain.

Rather than waiting for the exams to be passed forward, the maths teacher walked around the room collecting them, pausing by the blonde cheerleader’s desk. “You must wish you’d taken my advice in regard to your study partner, Ms Thompson.”

“Really?” Sydney arched one finely shaped eyebrow before turning her head toward Hobbs. “Were you working on the bonus questions too, Chris?”

The jock grunted, “What for? I don’t need the extra points.”

Dixon couldn’t quite hide a scowl at that comment. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to make more of an effort, Mr Hobbs,” he reprimanded as he stalked to the other side of the classroom. “Or did you want Mr Nakamura to show you up again?” he inquired as he took the test from the boy in front of Chris.

Hobbs scowled back at the teacher, kicking the seat in front of him for good measure. “Won’t need this sh- stuff at university,” he muttered.

“You no longer intend to study civil engineering?” Dixon questioned, his surprise evident.

The athlete raised one arm and flexed his biceps, the muscle rippling underneath the plain white shirt. “This is what I need to run my dad’s construction firm,” he boasted. “Just gotta be able to knock heads together to get things done.”

Chris should try the head-knocking on himself, Justin mused. It might even light things up inside his pea-brain.

“You should have more respect for maths, Mr Hobbs,” Dixon suggested, a hint of steel under the mild words as he lifted the jock’s test from his desk.

“Uh, yeah, you’re right,” Hobbs immediately reacted to the implied threat. “I just feel like I know this stuff, ya know?”

“Yeah, right.” Sydney snickered. “Chris won’t have done more than scribble his name at the top of the blank test paper.”

Amused by the pom-pom girl’s accurate assessment, Justin doodled a little more in his notebook, jotting down _No one’s home_ next to a simple joke ‘equation.’

He tilted the page toward Daphne, making his bestie snort. “Oh, is that the detect-” she started to ask.

“Pipe down!” Dixon commanded, cutting her, and the other chattering students, off. “You all need a lot more practice before you can handle basic math. Get to work on the next chapter - which _will_ _be_ on the final - while I grade your quizzes.”

“Prick,” a student at the back of the classroom groused in a low voice, with grumbles of assent coming from his peers. Dixon ignored the quiet slur, staring at the pupils until they reluctantly extracted their books from their rucksacks and half-heartedly began to peruse the first couple of pages in the new chapter.

Pretty much everyone - Justin included - was keeping on eye on the clock. While the others were simply eager to escape the maths tyrant, Justin wanted to get away before the homophobic teacher started insulting him, goading the boy to the point where he’d get himself in trouble. The currently less combative stance from Dixon must be a direct result of Detective Wen’s visit with Perkins, the lad assumed. He might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

With that in mind, Justin started roughing out a sketch of the detective on a blank page of his notebook. He’d have reached into his backpack for his sketch pad, but he didn’t want to chance Dixon catching him. Hmm, he pondered as he sketched, maybe the policewoman would like a drawing that wasn’t a caricature. It would be a challenge, one he’d relish, to render a more realistic picture of the intimidating Asian - show how thoroughly she could cow others with a miniscule quirk of one eyebrow or a twitch of her lips.

Maybe he’d make sort of a booklet out of everything, Justin mused, getting excited about the idea. He could even include the page from his notebook with the doodle of Wen as Mulan. The lad would bet the detective was a whizz at calculus, which meant she’d get more of a kick out of it. He’d have to add a small image of the muscle-bound jock next to the ‘joke equation’ though; he wouldn’t want the detective to think he was insulting her. The paper dragon that Origami Girl was creating for him could guard guard the ‘portfolio’ for its human counterpart.

The minutes crept by slowly for most of the students. As he sketched, Justin watched Daph’s left leg swing to and fro, the fingers of her right hand simultaneously tapping out a tattoo on the desktop.

The buzzer that signaled the change between classes finally went off, and a number of students began shoving their textbooks back into their backpacks and standing up. Without looking up from the tests that he was still marking, Dixon barked, “Sit down! None of you are going anywhere until I’ve returned your exams.”

“Pleeease,” the girl with what must’ve been the tiniest bladder ever whinged. “I’ve gotta-”

“Practice your Kegel exercises,” the teacher recommended, still concentrating on grading the quizzes.

“My wha-”

“Belt up,” Sydney hissed. “You can piss your knickers for all I care, but you are not keeping _me_ in this classroom one second longer than necessary.”

Justin nodded in agreement, wondering how a girl with such a troublesome bladder could be clueless about Kegel exercises. Had she slept through the ninth grade health class?

Six minutes later, Dixon finished slashing at the quizzes with his red pen. He stood up from his desk and stalked toward the back of the classroom, halting in front of the boy Justin now couldn’t help thinking of as the ‘butcher.’ “Mr Hudson,” Dixon addressed the teenager, “you’ve passed by the skin of your teeth, with exactly sixty-five points.”

“Oh, Huddy!” the beautician-in the making squealed, obviously considering this to be a feat of mental gymnastics. “I knew you could do it.”

Jesus Christ, Justin thought in disgust. Had some kind of weird virus attacked the Pitts, causing everyone to spout cutsey endearments?

Hudson rolled his eyes, although it was unclear whether that was intended for Dixon or his girlfriend.

“Keep rolling your eyes, Mr Hudson,” the teacher snarked. “You might find a brain back there. You’re going to need one to pass the final and return next semester.”

Dixon dropped the test on the boy’s desk before turning to Hudson’s girlfriend. “You, however, Ms Farley, will attend Ms Hearns’ eleventh-grade maths as of Monday.”

“B- but, how? Why?” the girl stuttered. “Huddy and I studied together. I’m better at this than him.”

“Your results indicate otherwise,” Dixon replied. He dangled the quiz from his fingers, dexterously twirling it around and exposing the oversized, red F and the number 40 at the top of the page, before tossing it down in front of the girl.

Vanna Farley gaped at him, a high-pitched whine that might have been an elongated “No” issuing from her mouth.

The other students were silent, avidly watching the train wreck happen, and praying that they wouldn’t also be sent back a grade. Except for Sydney, who snickered, “Couldn’t happen to a more deserving _beautician_.”

“You can’t do this,” Hudson protested, motioning between his girlfriend and himself. “Me and her, we’re a team.”

“You’re welcome to join Ms Farley in Ms Hearns’ class,” Dixon offered. “It would save you the embarrassment of failing the final.” He paused contemplatively before adding, “And if that’s your idea of proper English diction, you should also consider revisiting tenth grade English.”

Hudson slumped down in his seat, shrugging a weak apology at his girlfriend.

“Working in a beauty parlour should be ideal for someone like you,” the instructor drawled sarcastically, “but there’s another option that would also be a good fit.” He handed a sheet of paper to the stunned girl, elaborating, “This is a general application form for the Big Q. A former student of mine, who regrets not concentrating on their calculus, works there and informed me that they’re hiring bag boys and stockers. Either should be within your abilities.”

“I’ll let you hold my bag, girl,” a deep voice catcalled suggestively.

Vanna flushed bright red.

Dixon strolled away from Farley and along the row of desks, stopping for a moment when he reached Sydney’s desk and smiling sadistically at the pom-pom girl.

The blonde cheerleader jutted her chin out, daring Dixon to do his worst.

Fuck, no, Justin thought. How could Syd have failed?

Then the maths instructor moved forward a couple of steps, until he was even with the bladder-challenged girl.

Justin’s breath left him in a whoosh of relief, and he noticed that Sydney was uncurling her hands, which had been fisted in her lap, revealing deep crescents from her fingernails.

“Ms Brown, you can be Ms Farley’s colleague and confidante at the Big Q,” Dixon jeered, throwing the girl’s test onto her desk, a large, red F and a score of 38 scrawled across the top. He followed that with another application for the chain store. “You girls can look forward to lifelong careers there - progressing from bag girl to cashier to assistant manager. None of those jobs require much in the way of mental acuity.”

“Can I _go_ now?” the single-minded girl begged, apparently so tortured by her bladder that she couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

“You won’t last long at the Big Q, or anywhere else, if you have to urinate every five minutes,” Dixon chided. “Here,” he tossed a thick pamphlet onto the other papers, “this is from Mr Burns, the health teacher. “You can train yourself not to urinate so often and strengthen your pelvic muscles with Kegel exercises, which are apparently foreign to you.”

“ _It’s just a jump to the left,_ ” a voice chanted from the back of the room.

“ _And then a step to the right,_ ” another student picked up the song.

“ _With your hands on your hips,_ ” a third pupil joined in.

One of the students in the back of the classroom drummed their hands against their desk, and almost everyone chorused -

 

_'You bring your knees in tight_

_But it’s the pelvic thrust_

_That really drives you insane'_

 

“Like this!” One of the male students stood up and demonstrated, mortifying the girl further.

Dixon did nothing to stop the song, smirking in amusement before quickly returning the remainder of the tests.

Ms Brown burst into tears and scurried out of the classroom, presumably beelining for the women’s loo.

“Those students who are _theoretically_ passing but scored below 65 will find a note at the top of their quizzes directing them to report to the detention classroom this afternoon,” Dixon announced. “I’ll be checking with the substitute detention instructor to make sure you attend every day for the full hour; if you’re tardy, fail to show up, or leave early, it will count as an absence. I recommend that none of you slackers add to your tally of absences, since I _will_ dock you half a grade every time you accumulate three of them.”

Mutterings of “sadistic bastard,” “wanker,” and “Dickhead” came from the disgruntled students.

“There are more Big Q applications on the corner of my desk,” the maths teacher continued calmly. “You should grab one if you scored between 65 and 70.” He then waited a beat before saying, “Class dismissed.”

The students immediately stampeded for the door and their next classes.

“I can’t believe it!” an elated Daphne exclaimed. “I actually got a B+; that’s my best grade yet.”

“After the way Dickhead played me,” Sydney chimed in as they waited with Justin to exit the classroom, “I never expected a B-. I’m totes chuffed.”

The blond boy smiled at his jubilant tutees, giving each of the girls a high five.

“God, I wish I could go home and take a nap,” Daph groaned. “That test had me, like, completely stressed out.”

“I know, right?” the cheerleader agreed. “What the fuck?” she then asked, her brow furrowing in in irritation when she realised she wasn’t getting closer to the door. “Move your ugly mug, Farley,” she demanded when saw that it was the beautician cum bag girl, clinging forlorny to her boyfriend’s hand, who was blocking the doorway.

Although she shot a resentful look at Sydney, Farley did move over just enough for Justin, Daph, and Sydney to squeeze past. “We’d better book,” Daph warned Syd. “Our psych class is all the way at the other end of the building.”

“Yeah, it’s like running a marathon,” Syd agreed. The girls had started to rush off when the cheerleader turned around, jogging backwards, and shouted, “Hey, Taylor! You never said how you did on the quiz.”

Justin thought of the way ‘120’ had been slashed across the top of his test, as if Dixon was pissed that he couldn’t find anything to deduct points for. A satisfied smile on his face at having gotten the better of the maths teacher, the boy yelled back, “He didn’t mark me down for anything.”

 

After exercising - and double-checking that there were no unsightly deposits of _fat_ anywhere on his body - Brian showered and hoofed it to Starbucks for an extra-large, triple-shot latte. He was now sitting at his computer, researching the best computers for Kinnetik and, especially, for his young artist. He immediately dismissed Dell; from what he’d heard the computers were produced with problems built in, and their technical service department had a reputation for being snotty and unhelpful. He toyed with Gateway for a bit; they’d had a good product a few years ago but now seemed to be in decline, so he crossed them off the list. The iMac was emerging as a popular computer, but that wouldn’t do either, he decided, since its interface with Windows software was iffy, at best.

Shit, what was left? Brian fretted. He didn’t want to purchase cheap tech that would fall apart before they’d been in operation for a month. Right then he saw a link to an article about having IBM compatible desktops tailored for the individual company. He clicked on it, and started reading. Apparently, the CPU, monitor, and keyboard could all be purchased separately and then integrated. Brian liked the idea, even though it would require a techie to assemble the units and troubleshoot problems. Making a note to discuss the option with Ted and Cynthia, he moved on to laptops. The latest IBM ThinkPad looked like the best option, he determined a little later, and seemed to have a capacity to handle most software.

Brian reached for his latte, needing another burst of caffeine before delving into graphic design programs. To his dismay, he discovered that the cup was empty. He glanced at the time displayed on his computer monitor, cursing when he realised Cynthia was likely on her way to the loft and wouldn’t pick up. What the heck, he decided, grabbing his mobile; he’d ring her anyway and leave a message. It was Cyn’s problem if she didn’t check her messages before coming up to the loft; regardless, she could just turn around, drive to the closest Starbucks, and then return.

As he pressed number four on the speed dial, there was a thudding against the metal door to the loft, as if it was being kicked. Someone must’ve failed to close the downstairs door properly, Brian mused grumpily. It didn’t help that the bolt was hinky, making it easy for any sort of riff-raff to enter the former warehouse building. It was probably a door-to-door salesman or maybe a hopeful homo, eager to be banged by the stud of Liberty Avenue. Wannabe tricks had dropped by on a few occasions, although never at a quarter to nine in the morning. He stomped over to the door, growling, “Not interested,” as he slid it open.

Cynthia, laptop bag slung over one shoulder and hands full with a cardboard container of coffee drinks and a large bag of baked goods, from which a tantalising aroma was wafting, laughed in his face. “Okay, I’ll just go share these with Bethany,” she said, shrugging and half turning toward the lift.

The brunet lounged against the doorframe - his secretary wasn’t going anywhere. “Already missing Marty’s wandering hands?” he inquired sardonically.

“Hardly,” Cynthia retorted. “Bethany has the day off. We can caffeinate ourselves, nosh on these” - she swayed the bag of sugary treats - “and have a goss.”

“You can do all those things here,” Ted puffed, breathing a little heavily as he climbed the last flight of stairs.

“The boss isn’t _interested,_ ” the blonde woman deadpanned, perfectly mimicking Brian’s dismissive tone.

Ted cast a sidelong glance at Brian, not meeting his eyes. “Really?” he critiqued drily, “In my experience, the boss is like every other fag - he can’t wait to share a juicy titbit.”

Dammit, Brian, thought. As he’d suspected would happen, Ted was being awkward, obviously still smarting from the revelation about Michael’s move on Ben.

Cynthia’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Wha-”

Before his assistant could get an entire word out, Brian intervened. “Is Gertrude slacking off instead of slaving away at work?” he snarked as he stepped to one side, motioning for his employees to come in. “Not that I mind, while it’s on Ryder’s dime.”

His blonde assistant played along with the diversion, although Brian could tell from the way her eyes narrowed as she passed him that she’d be quizzing him at the first opportunity about what was up with Theodore. The older man followed close behind Cynthia, looking at the floor as he sidled past Brian, sloughed off his off-brand coat, and hung it up.

Cyn burst out laughing as she set the cardboard container and the bag of pastries on the counter. “The reason _Bethany_ is at home really _is_ one of those priceless bits of gossip.” As she removed her coat, scarf, and gloves, tucking the accessories into the pocket of her navy wool coat, then tossed everything at Brian, she elaborated, “Beth told me there’s been an invasion of mice at the agency. The employees were finding droppings in their printers and desk drawers as well as catching sight of furry little bodies skittering around corners. Pretty much everyone - female and male - has refused to work until they’ve been cleared out.”

“Huh,” Ted interjected, his hangdog expression easing a little as he joined Cynthia, accepted a cup of coffee, opened the fridge, removed the white plastic cover, and stirred in a dollop of half-and-half. “Don’t mice hibernate or something? I can’t remember ever seeing them during the winter.”

At least Theodore wasn’t acting totally uncomfortable, Brian mused. He took that as a sign that things would eventually return to normal between them. “They do sleep a lot,” he informed his friends as he hung up Cyn’s coat - Gucci, he noted approvingly - and then sauntered over to the bar, where he claimed the cup of coffee with a ‘B’ written on it, took a sip, and immediately added more sugar. “But they don’t actually hibernate. Like squirrels, they hunker down somewhere warm and dine on the food they’ve stored. They won’t usually leave their cosy hideaway unless they run out of food.”

“How do you know that?” Cynthia inquired, cocking a blonde eyebrow at her boss.

Brian flushed a little, recalling how Justin had regaled him with a PSA about squirrels, mice, and other rodents - he had no clue how they’d ended up on that disgusting topic, but allowing Justin to rouse him from his ‘hibernation’ under the covers had been fucking hot. “Heard it somewhere,” was all he told the inquisitive blonde.

“Justin, then,” Cynthia asserted confidently. “Anyroad,” she resumed her tale, “Ryder was having a cow about the whole thing, insisting everyone had to keep working since a couple of important accounts are up for renewal. But then his bimbo of a secretary was chatting up one of the legal beagles in the break room, when the bloke suddenly screeched and backed away from her, pointing at the bottom of the long, flared skirt she was wearing. Beth, who was in the room at the time,” Cynthia chuckled, “said a tiny mouse had its claws stuck in the airhead’s skirt. The woman started twirling around, trying to shake the mouse off, but the critter wouldn’t let go.”

Brian suppressed a shudder, imagining a mouse latching onto his Armani trousers.

“She ran out of the breakroom and into Marty’s office, screaming that he owed her ‘hazard pay’ and that he’d better get rid of the giant rats or she’d quit.”

“What happened to the mouse?” Brian wondered. Maybe the creature had jumped off the bimbo and onto Marty…

“No one knows,” Cynthia answered, “although apparently both Marty and his secretary were shrieking at the top of their lungs.”

“I doubt I’d be much braver,” Ted admitted.

“Me either,” Cynthia readily agreed, “but at least it’s gotten Bethany a paid day - or two - off while Terminix investigates the problem and clears out the pests.”

“Hey, this is really good,” the accountant said as he took a swallow of his coffee. “It can’t be Starbucks.” He lifted the paper container to examine it and was confronted with an emblem of two colourfully garbed drag queens, their arms around each other, on a lilac background. “Geesh,” he commented, embarrassment tinging his voice, “this doesn’t bear even a vague resemblance to the Starbucks cup.”

“Well, the lid _is_ white,” Cynthia commented, her eyes twinkling.

Ted gave a wry twist of his lips but didn’t issue one of his witty comebacks.

“Did Brian pass the crud on to you?” Cynthia probed.

“Not the _crud_ , no.”

The younger man hid a wince at the way Theodore had stressed ‘crud.’ He was regretting ever more strongly that he’d listened to the blond brat; he should’ve just left well enough alone.

“It couldn’t hurt to dose yourself with the honey in warm milk concoction, just in case,” Cynthia recommended, blithely ignoring the look of distaste that crossed her colleague’s face. “Now that he’s feeling better, Brian could pass on the jar-”

Before his assistant could blather on any more about what else he could ‘pass on’ to Ted - Christ, the man would probably never talk to him again - Brian interrupted. “Where’d you get the coffee anyway? Ted’s right. It does have a good flavour.”

“Emmett was raving about the Queens’ Court yesterday,” the blonde revealed, removing cutlery from a drawer and plates from the cupboard, before opening the bag of pastries. “He said the scones, especially the cranberry ones, are to die for, so I just had to stop there this morning. I was impressed by their efficient operation; even though there was a long line, I was served quickly and got here sooner than I expected.”

Right, Brian thought; her early arrival was what had led him to mistake the banging at his door for a trick. So why had Ted been almost equally early? Had his friend perhaps wanted to talk to him some more before they started the workday? Fuck. That obviously wasn’t going to happen now.

“Em’s right.” Ted acknowledged wanly. “Their baked goods are yummy.”

In spite of his endorsement, Brian noted that the older man didn’t look all that excited by the prospect of eating one of the scones. Ted did accept a plate with one of the pastries, however, and headed over to sit at the table, in front of the laptop he’d left there overnight.

“The carbs in those will clog my arteries,” Brian griped when Cynthia slid a plate with another of the sugary items toward him.

“There’s more sugar in your coffee than in that scone,” Ted quipped, although the humour sounded a little forced and he wasn’t exactly meeting Brian’s eyes yet.

Brian still smiled at the sally, which was rather weak by Theodore’s standards, simply glad that his friend was slowly regaining his equilibrium. Since he’d found nary an ounce of fat on his body after his morning exercise, a few bites should be okay, he rationalised, carrying his coffee and the scone-laden plate over to the table, where he sat down next to his CFO. He’d just cut the pastry in half and put the other half back in the bag later on. “Let’s discuss our computer and software needs,” the adman directed his team. “We should get a jump on that, if we want the equipment to be delivered and installed before Kinnetik opens.”

The three of them soon had various websites open on their laptops, and entered into a discussion of the pros and cons of the hardware and software they thought would be the best, with Cynthia entering information into a spreadsheet. “That build-a-computer concept is really great,” his secretary enthused after studying a webpage which detailed some of the possibilities. “That way we won’t be stuck with a lemon from any one company.”

“No,” Ted deadpanned, “we can juggle a bunch of lemons instead.”

A vision of himself juggling green apples the night he’d picked up Justin under a street lamp and then become a father popped into Brian’s head. Christ, he’d found bruised fruit everywhere for days afterward - and every single time he’d discovered one of those apples, he got hard, yearning for that fucking blond. He never did get over the kid, Brian acknowledged ruefully, no matter how much he’d initially feigned indifference.

Willing _another_ hard-on away, Brian immersed himself in the computer discussion with his employees. There was no argument about purchasing and having Microsoft Windows and Office 2000 installed as well as the latest versions of Adobe Acrobat and Photoshop. Cynthia muttered, “Word isn’t nearly as manipulable as Corel WordPerfect, but I’ll use it since it’s quickly driving WordPerfect into obsolescence. Excel and Quattro Pro are about equally good, though.”

Brian readily acceded to Ted’s request for the same accounting program he’d used at Wertshafter - it was apparently an industry standard - as well as the other financial software he thought would be best. Brian was somewhat familiar with the financial software since any halfway decent account exec needed to have a solid grasp of income and expenditures. “Good,” he grunted, “those programs should help us avoid waste.”

Once they had an HR program sorted out, the blonde woman asked, “What’s left? Graphic design?”

“Yeah. I want this program,” Brian said, turning his laptop toward Cynthia so she could make note of the website. “Bob and Brad resisted using it, complaining it was too complicated, but other designers in the art department produced some amazing artwork with it.” He couldn’t wait to see what Justin would create using the program; the results were bound to wow their clients.

“Having those numbskulls be so dead set against it is a recommendation in and of itself,” Cynthia teased. “So, it should be loaded on the two desktop computers for our art department?”

“Along with this laptop.” After bringing up another website, Brian turned his computer toward the blonde again.

“Fancy,” Cynthia whistled as the webpage cycled through different views of the Thinkpad and its advanced features.

His interest piqued, Ted moved around the table look over the blonde’s shoulder. “For Justin?” he asked, sounding pleased by the prospect.

“Glad to see you’ve come to your senses regarding the lad,” Cyn interjected before Brian could respond to the older man.

“It’s just a portable computer.” Brian shrugged as if it was no big deal.

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, boss,” his secretary twitted him.

The funny thing, Brian mused, was that he really didn’t have an ulterior motive in buying the laptop for Justin. True, he wouldn’t complain if it enticed the kid into having sex with him - although his balls would fall off if that didn’t happen before the laptop arrived - but mainly he just wanted the boy to have a computer that would allow him to hone his talents and, of course, produce designs that would rope clients into signing on with Kinnetik.

“See if you can put a rush order on the laptop,” he ordered. “Have it delivered here to my loft.”

“And the other computers?” Cynthia asked.

“Hmm,” Brian pondered. “It’s not like they can be installed until DC and his crew are finished with the remodel and the furniture has been delivered and arranged. Let’s target the twenty-seventh of December, and have them delivered to Kinnetik.”

“Who’s going to handle the installation?” Cynthia inquired.

“There’s a small computer shop I frequent,” Ted joined the conversation after staying mostly silent. “They’ve always provided excellent service; they might even be able to build the desktop computers for us.”

Brian nodded in approval. “I’d prefer to have someone local to provide us with technical support and troubleshoot problems.”

“Bethany’s darned good with machinery,” Cynthia piped up.

“She must be a dyke then,” the adman quipped.

“You’re incorrigible.” the blonde chastised him, although it was clear that she was fighting not to laugh. “Beth would be a good person to liaise with the local shop, though; she could refer questions to them that she can’t answer. She’d also be the ideal person to ensure we have the appropriate software licensing and to monitor upgrades to software.”

“Maybe we should clone Trudy,” Brian proposed, tongue in cheek. “One receptionist, one IT specialist, one whateverthefuck.”

“We really do need to talk about staffing,” Ted inserted, “but in the meantime, I could introduce techie Frieda to my contact at Goodwin IT.” Ted offered.

Cynthia rolled her eyes at the abuse of Bethany’s name but didn’t correct the two men, evidently more amused than anything at their high school antics.

“He’s one of the owners,” Ted continued. “You know, if we’re satisfied with their services, and we’re interested in signing a contract with them, I bet they’d be happy to accept an advertising campaign in lieu of a monetary payment. They really only have a listing in the Yellow Pages and rely on word of mouth to attract customers.”

“Follow up with your contact,” Brian agreed, relieved that Theodore was beginning to sound like his normal self and was making some excellent suggestions, “and we’ll have a discussion about our staffing requirements in a few days. The adman reached for the plate with his scone - maybe he’d eat the other half after all - just to discover it had vanished, only a few crumbs remaining.

Both Cynthia and Ted burst out laughing when he immediately acted like he’d been reaching for something else, the blonde woman crowing, “Caught you!”

Wadding up the napkin he had uselessly picked up off the table, Brian scoffed. “Whatever. You ordered that software yet? I don’t pay the two of you to gab.”

 

Daphne’s face went green as soon as they entered the cafeteria, almost gagging at the smell of the day’s lunch. The cooks seemed to have outdone themselves going by the rancid stench pouring out of the kitchen.

“What is that?” asked Sydney, scrunching up her nose. “It smells like my grandma’s house.”

Justin winced. “Uh, condolences?”

Daph glared at a student that tried to slip in front of them in the line, grabbing the boy by the back of his collar. “You’re kidding, right?” she snapped at him. “It’s bad enough I’m queuing for what looks like something out of biology dissection class; you think I’m just gonna let you skip in front of me and wait even longer?”

The kid, who had to be at least two years younger than them, gaped at her. “Uh, no?”

“Five points to Gryffindor!” his best friend exclaimed. “Now spit spot, go back to the end of the line.”

Sydney chuckled amusedly as the nitwit shuffled off back to where he’d come from. “Don’t get me wrong,” the cheerleader said, “I appreciate the performance, but it’s not like any of us is gonna eat that shit anyway, right?”

Daphne shrugged as Justin looked around the room, trying to discern what it was that the other students had on their plates. “That looks like a dirty sole off a hiking boot,” he commented drily. “Is it supposed to be meat or something?”

A redheaded girl that was standing in the queue in front of them, turned around. “It’s supposed to be Dagwood sandwiches,” she said in a bored tone before brightening up. “Oh, hey, Justin.”

Embarrassingly, it took the blond a second to identify her as Origami Girl since she had no dragon-adorned backpack that would immediately give her away. “Hey,” he greeted her with one of his sunshiny smiles once he did recognise her. “How are you?”

The girl nodded her head thoughtfully, causing her origami crane earrings to swing to and fro next to her face. “I can’t complain,” she finally settled on. Then, as if just noticing Justin’s girl friends, she greeted them with a serene smile, “Hello, Daphne. Hello, Sydney.”

Daph smiled in greeting, while the blonde cheerleader frowned. “Have we met?”

Origami Girl took a step backwards to move with the queue - how she knew the line had moved, Justin had no clue - before answering, “No.”

“O-kay,” Syd pronounced slowly. “Nice to meet you then...” she trailed off suggestively, waiting for the redhead to introduce herself.

The origami artist, however, either didn’t pick up on the cue or didn’t want to share the information, because she just smiled again. “Likewise,” she retorted sweetly, taking another step back as the line moved again. Justin decided then and there that she must have supernatural powers.

Origami Girl turned back to him. “How is your Chinese friend? Her dragon is coming along nicely.”

Justin grinned. “She’s busy scaring the piss out of lowlifes and, erm, _you know_.” The lad made a vague gesture towards where the principal’s office was located.

Taking another backwards step, the redhead nodded knowingly, though Justin wasn’t sure she actually knew what he was talking about. To assist her with the creative process, he’d explained that the dragon was intended for a petite but _very_ intimidating police detective, but how could she have connected that with Jerkins?

As he was puzzling it over, Origami Girl asked, “Do you think she might _drop by_ in the spring? I’d love to see her apply a little of her brand of persuasion to _You know who_.”

There must be rumours floating around the school, Justin realised. But who would’ve spilled the beans? Perkins sure as shit wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know how he’d been cowed by the diminutive policewoman, but perhaps his secretary hadn’t been able to help herself and spread the piece of juicy gossip?

“Quit gawping, Taylor,” Sydney hissed. “You look like you’re at the dentist’s with your mouth like that.”

“Or like you’re waiting for a dick,” added Daphne with a giggle.

The blond boy almost lost the thread of the conversation, his mind immediately veering toward Brian. “Um,” he spluttered, trying to shut out a vision of an always tempting nine-and-a-half inches, “h- how-”

“For fuck’s sake, Taylor,” the exasperated cheerleader informed him, “the whole school knows about the detective’s visit to St James. Those good-for-nothing school secretaries were in the students’ loo - theirs was stopped up again - right after her visit, flapping their gums about how _someone_ had wet his pants because he was so flipping terrified. They didn’t bother to check if anyone else was in there with them-” Sydney stopped speaking, staring in horror at the sandwich that had just landed on her plate.

“What the fuck is that supposed to be?” she asked the cook.

“I’d like to know too,” Origami Girl muttered, sniffing suspiciously at the one she’d been handed.

“Sarnie special,” the man replied.

“Special what, exactly?” Syd demanded. “Leftovers that are going off?”

The chef scowled. “Kids in Africa don’t have anything to eat, and yet you’re wasting food.”

“Maybe you should airlift it over there, then,” the pom-pom girl advised, shoving her plate at the man and stepping out of the queue.

Justin and Daphne looked at each other, their noses wrinkling at the idea of trying to choke down even one bite, and joined Sydney.

“You can have mine back too,” Origami Girl stated quietly, placing her whole tray on the counter.

“I wonder what origami hamburger would taste like,” someone behind them wisecracked.

“Like paper,” the origami artist shrugged.

“It’d still be better than today’s special,” the jokester claimed. “I’m outta here.”

A number of pupils headed for the door after the unknown student, equally dissatisfied with the day’s offering. “Let’s hit the vending machine by the gym,” another disgruntled student suggested. “The dumb jocks are out banging their heads together on the football field, so no one will bother us.”

“What an apt description of Chris and his friends. Not that those losers are much brighter,” Syd jeered, watching the students as they got jammed in the door, all trying to push their way out at once.  “What am _I_ going to eat, though?” she moaned, her stomach grumbling.

“We’re in the same boat,” Daph reminded the cheerleader, her tone rather sharp. “Or don’t we count?”

“Don’t be so sensitive, Chanders.” Sydney dismissed the admonition. “We’re in this together, of course. I’ll even share a bar of chocolate with you two - provided I can find one.”

He never would’ve expected to be part of the pom-pom girl’s _we_ , Justin thought, bemused. But here he was, growing fonder of her by the day.

Daph studied the blonde through narrowed eyes for a moment longer before relaxing and turning to her bestie. “Well, Jus, what have you got for us?”

“Want to join us?” Justin invited Origami Girl, who’d been listening to the other girls with an amused smile on her face. “I’ve got fresh-baked cookies that should stave off worst of our hunger.”

Sydney cleared her throat loudly, obviously not down with the redhead joining them.

The paper-folding wizard didn’t seem bothered by Syd’s reaction. “Ta, Justin,” she thanked the boy, taking a couple of steps with them as they moved toward the windowed wall of the refectory.

Sydney let out a weird snort that sounded like the whistle of a steam engine.

“But since I keep a stash of snacks in my locker,” Origami Girl continued, “I’ll be fine. I want to use the art classroom while no one’s in there anyway.” With a jaunty wave of her hand, she then headed toward the door to the cafeteria, her crane earrings swaying.

“Taylor,” Syd censured the boy as they sat down at an empty table moments later,“don’t you dare offer _my_ food to a stranger, ever again.”

“One, it’s not _your_ food,” Justin remonstrated, “and, two, Origami Girl’s not a _stranger_. She’s a friend.”

“ _Please_ ,” the cheerleader laughed derisively. “You don’t even know her name.”

Justin could feel himself losing his cool. Even if Sydney was a lot friendlier to him and Daph nowadays, she could still be a total bitch to others. He wondered _again_ , if she was just buttering him up so he’d keep tutoring her.

His conflicted emotions must’ve shown on his face because the blonde girl muttered, “Jesus, sorry. I just hate having to make nice with people who don’t matter to me, you know?”

“You must have one of those t-shirts that reads, “I’m not anti-social on the front,” Daphne interjected, laughing and bumping Justin’s shoulder with hers.

“Yeah,” Syd agreed with a wry chuckle. “Then when I turn around and they see the back, everyone knows what I really think, _I just can’t stand people_.”

“Geesh,” Justin mocked, unable to entirely suppress a laugh as he withdrew a large Ziploc container from his rucksack and removed the lid before placing it on the table, “it’s a good thing I know maths and physics, or you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“That and the baked goodies,” the cheerleader deadpanned, helping herself to one of the amaretti. “That’s all I’m here for.”

“What’d you guys think of the problems on the maths quiz?” Daph interposed. “I actually got through all eight; well, okay, I only half solved the sixth one because I got stumped midway through.”

“Same here,” Sydney nodded.

Justin made a mental note to create some practice problems for the girls that were similar to number six, so they wouldn’t run into difficulties on the final.

“Dickhead docked me a couple points on one of the other questions too,” the cheerleader continued. “My printing supposedly wasn’t legible.”

It figured that the maths instructor was pulling the same trick with Syd, now that she was no longer toadying to him, Justin thought.

“He’s done the same thing to Jus,” Daphne informed the cheerleader as she munched on a pizzelle. “That hasn’t happened since you went with my recommendation of trying computer writing, though, has it?” she asked, glancing inquiringly at her friend.

“No,” Justin allowed, “but that may have more to with Detective Wen’s visit than with Dickhead turning into a decent guy. It’s worth practicing that kind of writing, though,” he said to Sydney; “you’d have a better chance of arguing that you solved the problem correctly if it was obvious to anyone else who looked at it what you’d printed.”

“Huh. I don’t really have enough time to practice writing like a computer before the final, but maybe over the break,” Sydney mused. “It might help come the spring semester.”

“I’ll be practicing more over the break,” Justin revealed, smiling a little smugly. “I’ll even have an actual computer to check myself against.”

Daph, who’d just stuffed half a zeppole into her mouth, mumbled something incomprehensible around her mouthful of Italian ricotta doughnut and made what could be interpreted as a ‘gimme’ motion.

His smile widening, Justin clarified, “Brian’s buying a laptop for me, so I can-”

“Who the fuck’s Brian?” Sydney interrupted, joking, “Do I need to warn you about _stranger danger_ , Jus?”

“Har de har.” Justin rolled his eyes at the cheeky blonde. “He’s not a stranger. He’s my-”

This time it was Daph who interrupted. “Remember the question I asked Jus about ‘The Face of God’?”

“Yeah, kinda. What’s the big deal?”

“ _Brian_ is ‘The Face of God,’” Daphne disclosed.

“So he’s a good-looking dude?” The pom-pom girl shrugged. “I still don’t get why that’s a big deal.”

Resigned to Sydney finding out about his ex now rather than later, Justin shared, “Brian’s my former lover, and now I’m working for him as a graphic designer.”

“Get real, Taylor.” Syd snorted. “Like I’m gonna fall for that. If this Brian dude is any kind of businessman, there’s no way he’d hire a high schooler with no work experience. And he’d have to be, like, really _old_ to have established himself.”

“Uh, Jus isn’t yanking your chain,” Daph told the cheerleader. “You’re right, though; Brian _is_ kinda old. Like, what?” she teased Justin. “Thirty-two?”

“He’s not even thirty!” the blond lad protested, before dissolving in giggles, recalling the time at Woody’s when he’d incorrectly guessed that Brian was thirty-three. He’d been lucky that the outraged brunet deigned to talk to him after that. “Anyway,” he addressed Syd once he got his merriment under control, “Brian is opening his own advertising agency and has hired me to freelance for him.”

The cheerleader gaped at him, struck speechless for the first time that Justin could remember. Right as he opened his mouth to get even for the ‘dentist’ taunt, a hand slapped onto the table between him and Syd. “How could you?” a teary-eyed Vanna Farley accused.

The three friends stared at the distraught girl for a few seconds, before Sydney drolled, “I’m sorry I called you ugly. I completely thought you already knew.”

“I don’t care about _that_ ,” the girl wailed. “Besides, I know your beauty is, like, only on the outside.”

Holy shit, Justin thought, feeling his bestie stifle a laugh against his shoulder, it took balls to confront Syd with that kind of slur.

The cheerleader didn’t miss a beat. “At least I’ve got it _somewhere_ ,” she replied. “And, unlike you, I won’t have to give other crones makeovers.”

“It’s all your fault,” the aspiring beautician whimpered. “Dixon wouldn’t have gotten on my case if it wasn’t for you.”

Was she ever deluded, Justin scoffed to himself. The only one the maths teacher let get away with shit was the brown-nosing jock.

“I’m gonna be so lonely without my Huddy,” she moaned, clutching her hands to her chest, her face a blotchy, unattractive red. “And I can’t stand it when Hearns breathes on me. I- I think she’s a lezzie!”

“For fuck’s sake, enough with the pity party!” Sydney cut in. “Bad breath doesn’t mean you’re a dyke. I should know; I’ve been around plenty of lesbians.”

The boastful cheerleader had yet to meet a dyke as far as Justin knew, although she _had_ given makeup tips to a drag queen. “No,” the boy deadpanned, “it’s stinky feet, not halitosis, that separates straights from lesbians.”

“Yeah, like Melissa Etheridge,” Daph inserted, giggling.

Justin burst into laughter as he recalled Daph joking about feeling a kinship with lesbos because she liked the singer, attempting to make herself feel more comfortable before her first venture onto Liberty Avenue.

Farley looked at the besties in confusion, while Syd just shook her head in fond exasperation.

“You should’ve studied if you didn’t want to be sent back to eleventh grade maths,” she castigated the bottle blonde, “instead of spending all your time with your loser boyfriend. Like Dickhead said, the butcher will be joining you in the spring, so you won’t have to pine for him for long.”

“You are such an evil person,” Farley wailed, before quickly turning around and running away.

Sydney glared after her. “I might really need that T-shirt,” she muttered, and Justin was already coming up with ideas for a fun shirt for Sydney that he could give to her for Christmas. Maybe with graphics of Dr Banner on the front and the Hulk on the back? Or maybe something about cheerleading?

Daphne swallowed a mouthful of cookie, raising questioning eyebrows at Justin. “You were saying something about a computer,” she prompted.

“Ah, yes,” the blond remembered. “Brian said he’d order a laptop for me, so that I could work on my designs anywhere and anytime I want. I mean, he knows that I’m, like, crazy busy, so this way I won’t have to keep going all the way to K- uh, the firm and wasting time on the travel.”

Daphne opened her mouth to comment, but Sydney stalled her with a raised hand. “Wait, Taylor. So you really have a thirty-year-old sugar daddy that gave you a job and who is randomly buying things for you,” she paused significantly before going on, “and you _still_ slave at a diner? Are you tapped?”

Justin sighed. “Brian is _not_ randomly buying things for me - we’re not even together right now - and I need all the mon-”

“ _Right now?_ ” Daphne questioned loudly, leaning forward excitedly. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

The blond boy shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know; what do you think it means, Daph?”

His best friend snatched the last cookie, before explaining, “I think it means you’re contemplating getting back together with him. I bet it’s gonna happen soon.”

Justin scowled, packing up the empty cookie container. “You got all that from me saying we’re _not_ together?”

Daphne bit off a piece of her zeppole. “I got that from you saying you’re not together _right now_ ,” she corrected through a mouthful of crumbs, clearly not concerned with etiquette at the moment.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” the teenage boy snapped, feeling unusually defensive. “We should go if we want to make it to physics on time. Come on.”

“Whatever, I know I’m right,” Daphne insisted, rising from her seat. “And Syd knows it too, right?” she asked, turning to the cheerleader.

The blonde raised her hands in a surrendering gesture. “Yeah, no, I’m out of this one. Call me Switzerland.”

Daph huffed. “Coward. You both know I’m right and soon Justin will be banging Brian over the-”

She wasn’t looking where she was going, and her rant got interrupted when she smacked right into the cafeteria monitor, the woman’s horse-like face screwed up in irritation at the collision. “Miss!” Hatchet Face reprimanded her, “perhaps you’d like to share what has you so consumed that you’re not bothered to watch where you’re going?”

Sydney came to her friend’s rescue. “Ah, good old Olga,” she commented snidely. “Always sticking your conk where it doesn’t belong. Why don’t you go and monitor the other students, while we make our way to our physics class? You wouldn’t want it to be your fault if we were late, would you?”

Justin and Daphne gaped at the cheerleader’s behaviour as the ugly monitor grudgingly let them pass. “What the hell was that?” the blond asked, incredulous. “She’s gonna tell on us now, and we’ll be in deep trouble!”

Sydney rolled her eyes. “I seriously doubt that as she doesn’t remember faces.”

That gave Justin pause. “What do you mean?”

The blonde girl smirked. “She has a condition or something,” she explained. “She’s not able to remember faces, so she can’t tell on us.”

“How do you know?” Daphne asked.

“Back when I was a sophomore-”

“A long time ago, then,” Justin drolled.

“A donkey’s age,” Daph said seriously, causing Justin to grin at the girl It _did_ seem like a long time ago, though.

“Well, duh,” Sydney concurred. “We were only, like, fifteen. Anyway, that day, Olga-”

“Wait,” Daph interrupted. “You’re on a first-name basis with Hatchet Face? I was surprised you called her by her first name when you were making fun of her. I mean, I’d think that would really piss her off.”

“I have no idea what her name is; it was just the name that sprang to mind when I looked at her. Now, do you want to hear about her weird condition or not?” the cheerleader demanded.

“Give over,” Justin teased. “You’re dying to tell us.”

“Jus!” Daph hissed, elbowing the boy in the side. “C’mon, fill us in.”

“We’d had cheerleading practice before we ate,” Syd elucidated, “and we were sitting kinda clustered together at a couple of tables. Hatchet Face was about to write up a rowdy student who’d started a food fight and broke a bunch of crockery, when she realised she didn’t have a pen. She asked if anyone had one. The other girls pretended not to hear her, but I offered her mine because the rambunctious student was a total wanker. Once she’d finished writing her report and sent the kid off to the principal’s office, she started wandering around the canteen. She tried to return the pen to, like, four other blondes in their cheerleading outfits - there must’ve been at least six blonde pom-pom girls in the room-”

“What, is it a rule that you have to be a blonde to be a cheerleader?” Daph quipped. Tilting her head at Justin, she smirked. “You should totally try out, Jus.”

Diverted from her story about ‘Olga,’ Sydney looked Justin up and down. “We could use a couple of boys who can lift us properly. Want to try out?”

“Fuck, no!” Justin blurted, a horrified expression on his face.

The cheerleader burst out laughing. “Heck, Taylor, you should see your mug. I wasn’t being serious, you know. You’re too short; the coaches prefer that the male cheerleaders be tall as well as strong.”

“Thank fuck,” Justin muttered. He couldn’t remember ever being so glad to be on the short side.

“So,” Syd returned to her tale as they ambled toward the exit, “Olga went to three or four other blonde pom-pom girls to return the pen before she got to me.”

“Maybe she just hadn’t looked at you that closely when she borrowed the pen,” Daphne suggested.

“I thought of that,” Syd explained, “so I kept an eye on her for a couple months and tested my theory. She was pretty clever about hiding her condition, but when she approached the wrong person on a couple of occasions, I realised that she really orients herself by the outfits students are wearing, and by their hair colour.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Justin commented, his face alight with interest. He wished he already had the laptop from Brian so he could research it.

“You’re the only ones I’ve shared that information with,” Sydney revealed. “It’d probably be best to exercise your power over her sparingly.”

“I’m not about to wrangle a dementor.” Daphne shuddered. “I’ll leave that to you, Syd.”

They’d finally reached the glass doors to the cafeteria, and, as Sydney began to push one side open, Justin saw that there was a clear reflection of the the lunch counter in it. So that’s how Origami girl had known when to take all those backward steps… she wasn’t supernatural after all.

 

Later that day, Brian strolled into the diner, the bell jangling over his head. He halted just inside the door, blinking in surprise at how jam-packed the eatery was. A group of colourfully attired queens was clumped together right in front of him, chattering away as they waited for a place to sit. Christ, he hoped one of his friends had already laid claim to a booth or he’d likely have quite a wait before a table came free.

The brunet stud had meant to get here earlier, so he could keep an eye on the blond boy for his entire shift but, as he was about to leave the loft, he’d received a call from Shane McFarland at Over the Rainbow. Shane agreed with him that the bookstore’s current name was puerile; it made it sound like their customers weren’t over the age of ten. He was only hesitant about changing it because the shop had been known by that name for nearly fifteen years. If Brian could come up with a catchy name and an advertising campaign that would bring in new customers, however, he’d change it in a heartbeat.

After getting off the phone, Brian had spent a couple of hours thinking about changes to the layout of the store - the way the adult magazines were located in the back, next to the children’s reading area, was a disaster in the making - as well as brainstorming names. He’d come up with a couple of possibilities, but he wasn’t sold on either of them, so he decided to put a bug in Justin’s ear. The kid had done a brilliant job with Kinnetik; maybe he could come up with an equally clever moniker for the bookshop. Justin had better be ready to work long, hard hours on Sunday, which, if Brian had his way, would last deep into the night…

Before he could slip into a reverie about what he was going to do to the boy, one of the drag queens took a step back, her heel landing on the toe of his Timberland boot. “Sorry, doll,” she apologized, the peacock feathers in her fuchsia turban waving to and fro, “I just wanted to let these folks by.” She gestured at two harried-looking lesbians, one of whom was carrying a baby that let out an ear-splitting wail right then, exacerbating the din in the place.

Christ, didn’t the lezzies know better than to bring a baby to the diner on a Friday evening? Brian wondered.

“Here, let me take her while you put your coats on,” came a welcome voice.

“Thanks, Justin,” one of the mothers let out a gusty sigh as the blond forged his way through the throng of queens, a plastic bag in one hand. “I can’t believe we forgot her teething star at home. There’s no way we can stay with Chrissy on the verge of a tantrum.”

God forbid he should be around when the kid was _actually_ having a tantrum Brian thought, shuddering.

“I’ve boxed up your meals for you,” Justin informed them, taking the baby in his arms and swaying from side to side.

The tot stopped crying, fisting the boy’s apron in one chubby hand and blowing a spit bubble at him.

“You’re a lifesaver,” the other mother voiced her gratitude as she accepted the bag. “We didn’t remember the food in our rush to get Chrissy out of here.”

“Yeah,” the first lesbian agreed, yawning widely as she took her daughter back from Justin. “And I’m too fucking tired to cook anything.”

Hadn’t they heard of delivery? Brian wondered sarcastically as the baby started to grizzle again. Thankfully, they were out the door before the infant worked up to a full-throated wail.

Turning to the drag queens, Justin told them, “Kiki’s clearing off the table where they were sitting. It’s the one tucked in the back corner, though; it might be a tight fit.”

“Don’t you worry none, cutie,” the peacock-feathered queen tittered. “We’re used to tight quarters.”

“Hey, Bri,” Justin smiled at the brunet at the queens toddled to back of the diner.

Suddenly the noise level didn’t seem so unbearable to Brian.

“Ted’s at a booth a ways back,” the teenager said. “You should join him, help him hold it till the rest of the gang arrives. He’s been fending off customers desperate for a place to sit for the past ten minutes.”

“Why are so many queers here tonight anyhow? Is there a ‘two cocks for the price of one’ special?” Brian quipped.

“Not unless you’ve mistaken ‘cod’ for ‘cock,’” Justin bantered.

“Yo! Where’s my cod?” an irate patron yelled at that moment.

The blond lad sighed, rubbing at his lower back. “It’s insane in here today, and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down. I’ll be over to get your order in a little bit, okay?” With that, he bustled toward the kitchen window, presumably to see what the holdup was.

It took Brian almost a full minute to make his way to the booth Ted had claimed, what with a baby carriage barring his path - more morons with an infant at the diner on a Friday evening - and fat-arsed fags with their chairs sticking out into the aisle. He finally reached his friend, who was shooing an importunate leather daddy away from the table. “Is this seat taken?” he inquired politely, hoping Ted would pick up on the olive branch he was extending. It wasn’t like the stud _ever_ asked, after all; Brian always knew he’d be welcomed.

Theodore looked at him assessingly for a moment, before smiling a little and gesturing at the banquette opposite himself. “Im glad you’re here,” he admitted. “I’m not sure how much longer I could have held everyone at bay.”

As he removed his gloves, scarf, and Vince Camuto peacoat, and then slid into the booth, Brian noticed a couple wadded up bits of paper in front of his friend. He asked curiously, “What’re those?”

Ted’s face pinkened. “Um, a couple of the blokes who came over here apparently thought the best way to obtain a seat was to give me their phone numbers.”

Brian grinned at the older man. “Yeah? Did they try to sit down?”

“N… no,” his friend stuttered. “They just handed me their numbers and wandered off.”

“Remember how you wanted to be me?”

The other man blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. “Uh, yeah?”

“Now you know,” Brian informed him, lounging against the back of the bench and spreading his arms out. If he’d been guarding the booth, he would’ve gotten more numbers than that, with horny fags clamouring to be fucked in the men’s room, but he wasn’t about to tell Theodore that. Besides, he was focused on the best arse in town, with no time to accommodate lacklustre hopefuls.

Right as Brian thought that, a muscular brunet sauntered up to the table, leaned over, and dropped a scrap of paper into the stud’s lap. Then he tilted his head toward the loo and raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Not interested,” the stud answered, feeling a twinge of regret at turning the man down. He had been exactly Brian’s type - pretty much a clone of himself - until that blond brat came along.

“Call me anytime,” the lookalike purred, turning around and heading back to his own table. As Brian stared at the man’s arse - too flat - his regret dwindled away to nothing.

Turning back to Ted, he raised his eyebrows. “See?”

“You mean…” The older man stared at the crumpled bits of paper in amazement.

“You’re kinda hot… in a geeky, staid accountant sort of way.” Brian teased.

“It figures that the tricks have come _calling_ ,” Ted replied with a wry smile, “now that I’m no longer interested.”

“Yeah, well, that’s part of it.” The adman shrugged. “If you look too eager, no one’s going to approach you.”

Theodore sat up a little straighter, chuffed to be described as _hot_ by Brian, regardless of the qualifiers the younger man had added. “Um, about that thing we discussed yesterday…”

“Hmm?” Brian prompted when Ted’s voice trailed off.

The older man glanced around to make sure no one could overhear them before leaning forward and imparting, “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting kind of weird since you told me what happened with Michael. I _said_ I would want to know, so you told me. I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

Brian merely shrugged to show it wasn’t that big a deal. All that mattered was that things were no longer awkward between them.

“I talked to Ben, and he reassured-” Ted continued before abruptly stopping when Michael’s voice preceded his arrival.

“ _Briaan_ ,” Michael joyfully greeted his friend, scooting into the booth next to him. “You’re here!”

“It _is_ rare for me to eat at the diner,” Brian drolled, causing Dr Dave, who’d slid into the booth behind his boyfriend, to chuckle.

“I just meant it’s been _ages_ since I’ve seen you,” Michael explained.

“Two whole days,” Ted muttered drily to Brian, ignoring Michael, who didn’t even seem to realise his other friend was sitting right there.

“C’mere,” the chiropractor urged, hauling Michael into his arms when he pressed closer to his best friend. “I didn’t get a chance to see you yesterday either, Honeybun.”

“But… that’s diff-”

“Yoo-hoo!” Emmett interrupted, prancing up to the table in an outfit that nearly blinded Brian.

“What the fuck is that supposed to be?” the adman snarked, eyeing the hot pink mesh top Emmett had combined with bright blue, skinny trousers and a cropped leather jacket. “Halloween was over a month ago, Honeycutt.”

Em preened, unperturbed by the snide comment. “I wear an entirely different ensemble on Halloween, _Bri_ ,” he retorted.

“It’s true,” Ted chuckled. “He dons a black shirt with orange and lime green polka dots, and hot pants that are a garish shade of yellow with swirly orange streaks. The neon colours glow in the dark; you won’t have any trouble finding Emmylou at Babylon on that night of the year.”

Like he had trouble spotting the tall, flamboyant queen on any other night of the year, Brian mused.

“Don’t forget my knee-high boots with the green laces,” Em reminded Ted. “It adds the finishing touch to the ensemble.”

Brian shivered at the mental image. Good thing he always spent Halloween night at Popperz, enjoying the ‘body painted dicks’ competition, and was therefore nowhere near Babylon. Just this year, an eight inch cock painted as a Roman gladiator won the first prize, which Brian promptly rewarded by sticking his own unpainted sword into the guy’s tight arse. Too bad Justin had had another engagement that night - trick or treating with Molly - as Brian would’ve been very interested to see what his little artist could come up with to adorn his own impressive shaft.

“You are a sight to behold,” Theodore told his friend.

Emmett preened some more.

“Good evening,” Ben greeted everyone genially as he reached the table, although Brian noticed that the professor’s eyes only skimmed over Michael, as if the short brunet was of no consequence. He then paused, a look of confusion crossing his face when he saw how Emmett was attired. “Is there a costume ball at one of the clubs tonight?” he questioned.

Michael rolled his eyes. “No,” he answered, “that’s just how Emmett normally looks. Brian says he has no taste.”

When the southerner briefly looked wounded, before donning an indifferent expression, Brian wanted to strangle his childhood friend. That was _not_ what he’d told Michael.

“That’s funny,” Ted intervened, looking directly at the tall queen. “What I heard Brian say was how, although he wouldn’t be caught dead in one of Em’s outfits, he nevertheless admires the way Emmylou carries off every single one off with panache. It wouldn’t work on anyone else, but it does on Emmett.”

Brian hadn’t said anything quite like that either, but he _had_ thought something similar on more than one occasion. Therefore, when the flamboyant queen looked at him for confirmation, he nodded.

Emmett visibly relaxed, smiling and sliding into the booth after the professor, and Brian nodded again, this time at Ted, showing his appreciation for the way the older man had skillfully averted a queen-out. Now if only Mikey wouldn’t open his big mouth again…

“I have never heard Brian say that,” Mikey denied.

“It sounds to me very much like something Brian might say,” Ben interposed. “He’s obviously an astute judge of fashion, even when it’s not his own, and admires those who have the _character_ to carry off a style outside the expected.”

Michael folded his arms across his chest. “Whatever. Brian would never dress like that,” he mumbled petulantly before turning to his boyfriend. “Right, Babycakes?”

Brian winced at the thought of enduring another meal during which Michael and Dr Dave spouted nauseating endearments at each other.

The doctor nodded. “I think that’s what Ted said, Honey,” he replied softly, squeezing Michael to him affectionately.

Michael smiled broadly. “I knew you’d agree with me!” he crowed at Ted.

Ted’s brow furrowed, and he looked at Brian across the table with an expression that the younger man easily read as ‘What the hell just happened?’

Before the conversation could get any more inane, Justin made an appearance. “Hey,” he greeted the men.

Brian thought the boy looked unusually frazzled, much more so than he had when the brunet entered the diner a little while ago. His blond hair was in disarray, and he now noticed that one of the teen’s trainers had something purple wrapped around it - possibly duct tape, although Brian hadn’t known it came in anything except black and had never seen it used for shoe repair. Plus, his apron was so stained that it looked like someone had dumped their entire meal in his lap.

“Sorry for the delay, but-”

“Did someone dump their supper in your lap?” Brian interrupted him, his brain to mouth filter clearly having gone.

“More like multiple suppers.” Justin glanced down ruefully, tugging the apron and his cargo pants away from his body. “The Finn bobbled the tubful of dirty dishes I was handing him, sending everything - including a half-full bowl of onion soup - down my front.”

Ben chuckled, leaning closer to sniff at Justin. “The soup does smell good, though,” he joked. “I might get a bowl myself.”

The blond giggled like a - well, like a schoolboy. “If you promise not to pour it down my chest,” he retorted, causing the professor to laugh.

Brian stared at the two of them with a frown on his face. Was he seeing things or were they flirting? Turning to look at Ted to check his reaction, he could see the older man wasn’t bothered by the display.

Just as he decided it had probably been nothing, Mikey piped up. “Don’t you mind your boyfriend is flirting with the help?” he asked Ted. “I would definitely not like it if he spoke like that to my stud muffin.” He squeezed one of David’s biceps approvingly, and shot a look at the professor which seemed to dare, ‘Top that.’

Ben merely looked amused, while Theodore stared at Michael blankly. “I don’t mind a bit of harmless flirting,” he told the man in an even tone. “I know Ben doesn’t actually want to be with anyone else. I’m pretty secure in the knowledge that if anyone tried anything, they would crash and burn.”

Brian and Justin exchanged pointed glances at Ted’s words.

“Whatever,” Mikey muttered. “The service here is rubbish.”

“Maybe you’d like to trade places?” Justin offered, whipping out his order pad and placing it on the table in front of the stroppy brunet. “Let’s see how you do at serving all the hangry customers.”

“A little competition is a fine idea,” the professor joined in. “I’ve used that tactic with my students. It tends to bring out the best or the wor-”

“I’m a manager at the Big Q, not a fucking busboy!” Michael protested stridently, overriding Ben’s mild tone.

Brian didn’t know why that caused the teenager to start giggling again - Michael’s self-promotion to manager was pathetic, not funny - but as he tried to puzzle it out, the Brian-clone from earlier brushed up against Justin and purred, “You can give me a fucking, busboy. Anytime. Andy’s got my number.” With that, he slipped a folded banknote into the teen’s apron pocket and sauntered toward the door.

Was his clone trying to buy the blond’s affections? Brian wondered. The boy would never be interested in a trick that he had rejected, the brunet stud tried to reassure himself, even if he hadn’t seen Brian dismiss the man. Feeling an ache in his chest, he rubbed at it. Fucking heartburn; he’d have to get an over-the-counter medication to deal with it.

“You should take him up on his invitation. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to Brian fucking you again,” Michael sneered. “If, that is, you can find this Andy guy and get the number.”

A wicked gleam in his eyes, Emmett corrected his friend, “Sweetie, I don’t think you heard the man right. He-”

Dammit, Brian thought, catching sight of the expression on the southerner's face. He was probably going to indulge his penchant for mischief-making, which would doubtless send Mikey into a tizzy.

Fortunately, the quelling look Justin directed at the gossip queen quieted him. “I’m not interested,” the teenager told Michael as he removed the twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, unfolded it, and set it on top of the order pad. “ _You_ feel free to call the number, though,” he finished, tapping his pencil against Andrew Jackson’s profile.

Brian’s lips twitched, as did those of the men on the other side of the table. The lad had very neatly turned the tables on Michael, insinuating that it was the short brunet who’d never get what he wanted from his best friend.

Michael looked confused for a moment, before summarily dismissing the topic. “Whatever. Are _you_ finally going to do _your_ job and take our orders?”

Smirking, the blond boy reclaimed the banknote and his order pad. He then turned to Ted, politely inquiring, “What would you like?”

“Um, is the Finn doing the cooking?” Ted asked, sounding a bit apprehensive.

His friend must’ve cottoned on that it was unwise to order anything other than fish when the Finnish bloke was manning the cooker, Brian thought, grinning.

The blond giggled again. “No, you’re safe-” he began to reassure Ted, when a loud growl from his stomach nearly drowned out what he was saying.

“Do you have Mount Vesuvius hidden in there, Baby?” Emmett quipped, patting the blond’s belly.

Justin blushed a fiery red that would’ve done the dormant volcano proud.

“You weren’t kidding about sitting down and letting someone take your order, were you?” the professor teased.

“Erm,” the boy scratched at his head, explaining, “I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch, and that was just a couple of cookies.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Michael griped. “You must get a fancy meal at that posh school you go to.”

“Hardly,” Justin denied. “The stuff at St James is almost always inedible. Today it was Dagwood sandwiches made with stale bread and filled with disgusting, rubbery leftovers. It smelled bad, like the food had already gone off or something. We might’ve gotten botulism or something if we’d tried to eat the sarnies,” he finished a trifle dramatically.

“You could’ve eaten more of the cookies then,” Michael huffed, crossing his arms petulantly. “That’s a better dessert than Brian and I ever got in school.”

“St James is all about ‘healthy eating,’” the blond made air quotes around the two words to convey his disgust, “so the most they have for a treat is, like, plain yoghurt. The biscuits were ones Debbie had boxed up for me. They didn’t last long, what with splitting them three ways.”

“Your little girlfriend’s only one person.” Michael chuckled, “Having trouble with basic math, Blondie?”

Emmett clapped his hands together. “I think Baby has acquired a second fag hag.” With an amused glance at the lad, he added, “There is a downside to having more than one hag, you know. I bet the girls scarfed down those cookies in no time flat.”

“Yeah,” Justin concurred, shaking his head ruefully. “I was only able to get my mitts on, like, two of the sweets before they were gone.”

“I don’t see why it should be our problem,” Michael swept a hand around the table, “if you gave away your food. I’m starving. I want my-”

“Justin, honey,” Kiki’s voice interrupted Michael’s efforts to place his order, her heels clacking against the lino as she traipsed over to the booth where the gang was sitting. “It’s already seven o’clock, and you haven’t had a break since you got here. Why don’t you take off now instead of waiting till seven-thirty? That’ll give you a little more time before your dance gig.”

“Are you sure?” the lad asked, glancing around at the still teeming eatery. “I don’t want to leave you in the lurch, Kiks.”

“Eh, the crowd has thinned a little, and Harry will be here at eight,” the tranny replied. “If the hungry horde clamour too loudly for their food, I can always press the Finn into waiting tables - let the dirty dishes pile up for a bit.”

“Uh, that didn’t go so well the last time,” Justin reminded her. “He, um, spilled more than one plate of food.” He wouldn’t be the only one doused with soup, and who knew what else, if she relied on the dishwasher.

“Well,” Kiki chuckled, “at least they’ll be getting their meals, if not in quite the way they expected. “Now go on; off with you.”

“Okay.” Justin smiled at the waitress, his stomach rumbling again as he started to pull off his apron.

“Why don’t you box up a burger and fries for the lad,” Brian suggested. “And a turkey sandwich for me on-”

“Dry wheat toast, hold the mayo,” Kiki finished for him. “Everyone in here knows how you take your meat, Kinney.” She winked at the brunet saucily before turning her heels and sashaying over to the kitchen pass-through.

“Wait! What about my dinner?” Michael shouted after her.

“She’ll get to you as soon as she can, Mikey,” Brian told his friend. “Now budge over. I’m going to give Justin a lift home.”

 

Justin slid into the passenger seat of Brian’s car, shivering violently. “Fucking cold,” he complained, teeth chattering. “Thanks for offering to drive me, Bri.”

The brunet shrugged, buckling himself in. “No problem,” he told the younger man. “It was getting a bit stuffy in there anyway.”

Justin smirked knowingly. “Michael will do that to you,” he snarked. “Even Ted seemed to be tired of him, and he’s usually the most tolerant of us all.”

Brian decided to ignore Justin’s jibe at Mikey, not knowing how he should feel about his - whatever Justin was to him - talking like that about his best friend. Instead, he explained Theodore’s behaviour, “I told him about Mikey’s pass at Ben, _per your instruction_ , and he didn’t take it very well.”

“Oh,” the teenager breathed, a sympathetic expression on his face. “Well, now I feel bad.”

The brunet turned to look at him incredulously. “Are you serious? You told me - no, you basically _ordered_ me - to do it, and _now_ you feel bad?”

Justin bit his lip. “I’m glad you did it, Brian,” the lad told him quietly. “Ted had a right to know. I just feel bad about the whole situation, I guess. I kind of wish Michael hadn’t done it in the first place, so the lot of us wouldn’t be in this mess right now.”

Shrugging, the ad executive finally turned the key in the ignition. “It is what it is.”

“That’s it? Just ‘it is what it is’?” the blond frowned. “Don’t you think he needs telling off?”

Pulling onto the street, Brian shrugged again. “Probably,” he admitted. “It’s really none of our business, though.”

“He’s your best friend!” Justin cried out.

The brunet took a deep breath, willing himself not to get frustrated with the boy. Giving Michael a rollicking wouldn’t really help anything - it was better to just let the dust settle. “Justin,” he said calmly, “do you want us to argue?”

The blond immediately opened his mouth to retort, chest rising with an indignant breath, before he paused, clearly swallowing down the impulsive response. “No,” he admitted after a moment, shoulders slumping.

“Then let it go,” Brian prompted him softly. “Let’s leave Mikey alone and focus on other things, yeah?”

Justin’s eyes brightened. “What other things?” he asked teasingly, turning his body more towards Brian.

“Like,” Brian slowly stroked the steering wheel with one gloved hand, while blue eyes avidly followed the motion, “how you’re coming along with your thought process.”

His thoughts scattering, it took the teenager a moment to regroup and respond. “Which _thought process_ was that?” he inquired archly, fisting the stick shift in his left hand and sliding his fingers up and down. “I’m good at multitasking, you know.”

Little shit, Brian thought in fond exasperation as he drove down Deb’s street. They could continue with the wordplay, but since there was less than an hour left before the kid had to be at Babylon and he still had yet to eat, Brian decided he preferred to take a more direct action.

He parked the jeep - it figured there’d actually be a space in front of Debbie’s house when he didn’t plan to stay - climbed out, sauntered around the vehicle until he reached the passenger door, and opened it.

Justin, who’d been about to thank Brian for the ride again, wondered what the fuck the man was doing. As he collected his rucksack and the to-go box with his hamburger, he shrugged off the bizarre behaviour, slid out of the jeep, and headed up the path to the house. He heard the passenger door slam shut behind him and, expecting that the brunet was about to leave, half turned around to wave goodbye. Instead, he discovered that Brian was right on his heels.

Brian grinned at the baffled look on Justin’s face as he pushed the lad against the door.

“Wha-” was all Justin got out before Brian’s mouth covered his.

The brunet nipped at Justin’s lower lip, coaxing him to open up, before delving inside that warm cavern. It took less than a second for the boy to respond, his tongue twining around Brian’s. He then thrust forward, running his tongue across the older man’s teeth and making Brian’s gums tingle.

Their tongues dueled, and when their lips finally parted long moments later - with an audible popping noise - both men were breathless.

“Um,” Justin panted, “maybe…”

“Maybe what, Sunshine?” Brian asked, rubbing his nose against the boy’s.

The sweet gesture got to Justin even more than the scorching kiss had, making him remember the drowsy moments they used to enjoy after they’d just had sex, when Brian would nudge their noses together that way. Fuck, he was still so in love with the man, he mused, sighing. “Maybe I can come over to the loft sometime soon,” he said, feeling like it wouldn’t do any harm to give in a little.

When Brian’s face lit up with a delighted smile - the kind he rarely gave anyone - Justin’s resolve to give in just a little almost faltered, but then he steeled himself. He did want more than a fuck, but until Brian admitted that he wanted the same, he refused to let it show. Justin shrugged, stating, “The sex is always good,”

Brian’s smile dimmed as those words fell from Justin’s mouth. They weren’t talking about a cup of tea, for fuck’s sake - the sex between the two of them merited more than a tepid ‘good.’

“And as long as you’re willing to accommodate my schedule,” the lad continued, “I don’t see why we can’t fuck occasionally.”

Brian wasn’t sure why he didn’t feel more elated. That was exactly what he wanted, right? “When?” he managed to choke out.

“I’m not sure,” Justin answered, hating the sad expression that flittled across Brian face, but nevertheless sticking to his guns. “I’ll let you know. Okay?”

“Sure,” Brian bit out, struggling to appear indifferent. He was tempted to say that _he_ might not be available, but that wouldn’t get the blond back into his bed. He reminded himself that once he had Justin there, it wouldn’t be hard for him to persuade the blond to return, again and again. Stepping back until he was off Debbie’s front porch, he inquired nonchalantly, “I’ll see you at Babylon then?”

Justin grinned, trying not to show how forced his smile was. “Yeah. See you there.”

The blond lad watched the taillights of Brian’s jeep recede into the distance before entering the house. After hanging up his threadbare jacket, he darted into the kitchen and dropped the to-go box on the table. “Hey. I’ll be right back,” he yelled over his shoulder at Vic, not even giving the older man, who was reading the newspaper in his usual seat, a chance to say hello.

 

A few minutes later, dressed in a clean kit - he hadn’t been able to stand the way his soup-dampened clothes clung to his skin - he clambered back down the stairs. He called hello to Debbie, who sat ensconced at her sewing machine, the motor whirring as she she fed some satiny red material under the foot. The redhead waved at him, gave him a “Hey, Sunshine,” and then cursed as the needle jammed.

Justin was grinning at the typically domestic scene, à la Debbie, when he re-entered the kitchen. As he reached for the takeout container, impatiently tearing it open, his stomach let out a loud grumble. He didn’t give a damn that the food had gotten cold; he was so hungry by this point that he might’ve even eaten one of those disgusting Dagwood sandwiches.

Vic chuckled at his eagerness. “How long’s it been since you fed the beast, Kiddo?”

“Pretty much since this morning,” Justin mumbled around a large mouthful of burger.

“The canteen food was unpalatable again?” Vic assumed.

“Dagwood sarnies made from the most putrid leftovers ever,” Justin informed him, wolfing down a second bite of the meat and shoving a handful of chips into his mouth.

“That doesn’t look very tasty, or all that filling,” Vic commented, eyeing askance the hamburger and the now rather limp fries. He pushed his chair away from the table and started to stand up. “Why don’t I whip up a little something for you?”

Justin’s eyes narrowed in concern when Vic stumbled a little as he stood, and he felt ashamed that he hadn’t noticed how wan and tired the man looked. It seemed like he might’ve even dropped a couple of pounds, which he could ill afford to lose - he was all skin and bones after his protracted battle with Aids.

“I’m good,” he hastily reassured Vic. “I don’t have that much time before I have to be at Babylon. I can always eat more of Deb’s cookies to stave off the hunger pangs.”

“Yeah, okay,” Vic agreed, sinking back into his chair.

It was unlike the older man to concede so easily, which made Justin even more worried. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice calm.

“This last bout of diarrhea has really sapped me,” Vic admitted. “It hit me again this afternoon.”

“Maybe you should go see the doctor?”

“I will if I don’t feel better in a few days.” Vic promised. “You shouldn’t worry, though. It’s not unusual for the diarrhea to recur a couple of times before it starts to taper off.”

He’d check with his mum, Justin decided, see whether she was apprehensive about Vic having the runs again. Though he supposed if it were really bad, Debbie would be hovering over her brother now, pressing him to eat and drink, so maybe it wasn’t too serious.

“How’s the go-go dancing going?” Vic asked abruptly.

Justin played along with the change of topic - the older man must be fed up with talking about his illness. “I’ll let you know after I spend the weekend shaking my ass to ‘In the Navy,’ ‘Karma Chameleon,’ and ‘YMCA’ a hundred and one times,” he joked.

Vic quirked an eyebrow at the blond. “They haven’t added ‘Dancing Queen’ to the repertoire?”

“Don’t go giving the management any ideas,” Justin groaned before perking up. “Hey, speaking of the powers that be at the club, how’re things going with Mr Smythe, er, Arthur?”

“There’s nothing happening on that front.” Vic shrugged philosophically.

“What do you mean?” the teenager inquired, frowning. “I could tell the bloke was keen on you.”

“We did flirt some, that evening I accompanied you to Babylon,” Vic agreed. “He seemed really interested, even promised to call me to arrange a date,  but then I told him about my HIV status. It was clear that Arthur was put off; he suddenly had some ‘emergency’ to attend to, and bundled me out of his office.”

Taken aback by the sudden surge of hurt and sympathy pressing against his chest, Justin wished he had never asked. “He, um, hasn’t called then?” he questioned hesitantly, not wanting to make Vic feel even worse but curious despite himself.

“No,” Vic responded curtly. “He’s clearly blown me off.”

Ignoring the burning in his sinuses, Justin put a soothing hand over one of Vic’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up a bad topic.”

“It’s just the way it is, Sunshine,” Vic lamented. “Most men can’t handle the reality of dating, never mind having sex with, someone who’s positive.”

The professor was damned lucky to have found Ted then, Justin realised. A lot of guys would have been scared off by Ben’s status, regardless of his good looks and intelligence.

“Don’t let it affect your working relationship,” Vic requested. “Arthur really isn’t a bad guy. It is ultimately his prerogative to decide who to date.”

Even though that was true, Justin couldn’t help losing some of his respect for Smythe. There must be men who would see past the disease to the person, so he didn’t know why Arthur couldn’t do the same. After all, no matter what safeguards one took, any queer had a chance of contracting HIV.

With a squeeze to the lad’s hand, Vic smiled. “Go on and eat the rest of your dinner, Sunshine. Don’t let an old fart like me ruin your appetite. You need the fuel if you’re going to shake your bubble butt for hours.”

Justin smiled back, albeit a little weakly. “I’ll even ask the DJ to play ‘Dancing Queen’ in your honor,” he bantered.

Vic’s grin widened. “You do that, Kiddo. Even though it’s kind of cheesy, that song always makes me feel better.”

Justin promised himself to shake his booty extra enthusiastically if the famous ABBA song came on that night.

 

The late evening found Justin whistling ‘Dancing Queen’ as he mounted the stairs to Babylon, his hurried steps crunching across a fresh covering of snow. He still had ten minutes till the start of his shift, so he wasn’t pressed for time, but it was cold as balls outside, which was why he was rushing.

Just as he was about to push the main door open and finally get out of the cold, a cheerful voice called after him, “Yoo-hoo! Baby, wait for us!”

The blond turned, eyes quickly searching out Emmett in his glaringly gay outfit and the rest of the gang, who were following closely behind the queen, chattering animatedly about something. Resigned to spending another minute or two in the freezing weather, Justin gave the group a wave, indicating that he would wait for them.

It was only when the gang was finally just across the street from the gay club that Justin could hear what they were talking about. Michael was complaining that Brian had apparently not joined them at Woody’s as was his usual habit and instead played chauffeur to ‘that spoiled little brat,’ driving him all around town.

“It was hardly that,” Ben came to the stud’s defence. “Debbie’s house is just a couple streets away from the diner.”

Mikey glared at the professor. “Then what took him so long?” he questioned. “It’s only like five minutes to mum’s house.”

Before anyone could theorise about where he had or hadn’t been, Brian spoke up, “I had some work to do, so I stopped by the loft.”

“But, Brian!” Mikey whined. “David had to be at one of the Ironmen’s games tonight, so I needed my best friend to keep me company.”

Luckily for the brunet ad executive, the gang had finally made it across the street at that point, joining Justin in front of Babylon’s entrance, which naturally made the conversation come to a stop.

“Justin,” Brian nodded in greeting, trying to seem nonchalant.

“Brian,” Justin returned, equally as awkwardly.

Emmett narrowed his eyes at the two of them, a suspicious twist to his lips. “Did you two fuck or something?” he asked accusingly.

“No!” both Justin and Brian denied vehemently, which - of course - only made them look more suspicious.

At least Em was certainly of that opinion. “Are you sure? You two look guilty as fuck,” he claimed.

Before either of them could defend themselves, a large group of loud teenagers came within shouting distance, interrupting their conversation.

“Faggots!” one of them yelled at the top of his lungs, voice cracking in the middle of the word in uncontained excitement.

Justin narrowed his eyes at the group, trying to see their faces in the weak light of the street lamps.

“Hey, buttfuckers!” another voice joined in. “What do you do when your arses are all loosey-goosey after a night of ramming it up the shit-chute and your cheeks are left just flapping in the wind?”

The blond gaped. He knew that voice, he thought to himself; in fact, he had heard it just this morning as Hobbs boasted he wouldn’t need high school maths to work for his dad’s construction firm. What the hell was Christopher fucking Hobbs doing on Liberty Avenue, yelling about buttfuckers and loose arses?

Another imbecile piped up with his own stupid question, encouraged by the raucous laughter that had followed Hobbs’ slur, “Yeah! What do you do when shit comes out while you’re fucking?”

Emmett, clearly the one in possession of the biggest balls of all of them, yelled back, “What do _you_ do when _you’re_ having sex and - oh, wait - you’re not.”

Justin snorted.

Hobbs wasn’t to be outdone by a garishly clothed queen, though. “Fuck off, you nancy!” he snapped, separating himself from the group and heading right towards them, shoulders squared in anticipation of a confrontation. “Do you want me to beat the queer out of you?”

Ben, all six feet two inches and a hundred ninety pounds of him, stepped forward. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said calmly, using his patient professor voice. “Why don’t you and your friends go have fun somewhere else, while we do the same?”

Never one to be reasonable, Hobbs completely ignored Ben’s suggestion. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself; how about that?” he mocked the older man instead.

To Justin’s surprise, Ted - who looked like wind could blow him over next to the bulky professor - walked forwards until he was stood next to Ben, his legs spread and slightly bent at the knees, arms tense and hands fisted at his sides. It looked like an actual fighting stance, the blond noticed, having seen Detective Wen stand exactly like that the time she scared off the unhelpful cop in front of the precinct when Justin went to report his torched locker.

Tired of the jock’s attitude, and eager to fight his own battles, the teenager cleared his throat. “Get lost, Hobbs,” he told him, causing everyone’s heads to swivel to him. “This is not your turf; you can’t bully anyone into doing your homework here.”

“Taylor?” Chris gaped at him incredulously, unknowingly copying Justin’s earlier reaction. The jock quickly regained his equilibrium, though. “So this is where you come to fuck other fags, huh?”

Noticing the rest of Hobbs’ clique was slowly edging closer, lured in by the promising drama, Justin retorted, “Is this where _you_ come to fuck other fags?”

Had it not been for Ben’s quick reflexes and the steel grip he suddenly had around Chris’ bicep, Justin would’ve ended up getting punched in the face.

“You fucking faggot!” the jock was shouting. “I’m gonna bash your head in, I swear!”

Justin felt a familiar arm wind itself around his shoulders, Brian’s warm body pressing against his back in silent support, a pointy chin finding his shoulder to dig in. In for a penny, in for a pound, the blond reckoned, opening his mouth to deliver the killing blow. He was sure Hobbs’ little fun club would be interested in hearing all about that hand job in the locker rooms.

Before he could say a word, however, yet another voice joined the conversation, “You do realise that the louder you shout, the more you look like a closet case, Chris?”

The blond teen’s mouth widened into a happy grin. “Hi, Sydney!” he greeted his friend over Hobbs’ spluttering denials.

“Hi, Justin!” the cheerleader returned just as excitedly. Then, turning back to Chris, she continued, “I saw you and your group of followers turning onto Liberty as I was driving home from my evening practice. I thought I would investigate what my ex boyfriend was doing in a well known gay neighbourhood.”

A murmur of surprise went through the gaggle of Hobbs’ friends, comments like, “They broke up?” audible over the general white noise. Huh, so Hobbs wasn’t exactly bragging about the fact that Sydney had apparently dropped him like a dead weight.

“What, are you a dyke now?” the jock asked his ex girlfriend in a weak attempt to direct everyone’s attention elsewhere.

Pretending to consider his question, Sydney tilted her head. “Maybe,” she finally divulged, before adding, “I think your puny dick must’ve turned me.”

This earned her an uproarious gust of laughter from the gang and Emmett’s supportive cheer of, “You go, girl!”

Finally realising he was in way over his head, Hobbs withdrew a few steps. “This is all your fault, Taylor,” he blamed the blond. “You’re gonna pay for this.”

Justin felt someone put their hand on his upper arm in support as he watched Hobbs leave. Turning to his left to give the person a grateful smile, he was surprised to find Michael looking at him in sympathy.

“You okay?” the older man mouthed at him.

Justin felt himself give Mikey his best sunshiny smile. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Thanks.”

The unlikely moment between him and Michael got interrupted by an excitedly bouncing Sydney basically throwing herself at him.

“Uh,” the blond huffed returning the hug awkwardly, since Brian was still draped all over his back.

“Are you going dancing?” she asked him once she released her hold on his ribcage.

Checking his watch in sudden panic, Justin swore, “Fuck, I’m late for my shift. Fuck!”

The cheerleader poked him in the side insistently. “Take me with you, Justin,” she demanded, bold as brass. “I wanna see what a gay club is like inside.”

Cheeks pinkening in embarrassment at the thought of his blonde friend seeing him dance in just his underpants, Justin tried to let her down, “Syd, I don’t really think that’s-”

“Of course you can come!” Emmett steamrolled right over him. “You were absolutely brilliant dealing with that jerk.” Then, putting his long arm around her shoulders, the flamboyant man began to lead her inside. “You said your name was Sydney? I’m Emmett and I’ll be your best friend tonight…”

Brian chuckled in his ear as the duo disappeared inside the thumping club, followed by the rest of the gang, who were also chattering excitedly - Mikey huffing about what an idiot this Hobbs bloke was, while Ben teased Ted about being Muhammad Ali in disguise as he slung his heavy arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“Come on, Sunshine,” Brian murmured quietly, voice warm and low. “Let’s go inside before our balls freeze off.”

It was gonna be a long night, Justin thought with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratias ago = thank you  
> Nihil suus = it’s nothing
> 
> As usual, the graphics accompanying this chapter can be seen here:  
> http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/Adminftp/eFiction355/viewstory.php?sid=781&chapter=36
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


	37. Chapter 37

Justin twirled a pencil in between his fingers, heaving a long-suffering sigh. He was supposed to be preparing for his SAT but, just like the week before, he was bored with the material, so he’d spent the last half an hour just doodling in the margins of his notebook, sipping coffee, and munching cookies.

He again cast his eyes over the maths problems and clucked his tongue in disbelief. Had he really believed the algebra, geometry, and trigonometry questions would present more of a challenge than the English portions of the aptitude test? The problems _he_ had skipped ahead to solve in his calculus textbook were way more advanced than these; in fact, he couldn’t find a question as complex as the ones Dixon had covered in the first week of class, back in August.

Since the preliminary SAT he’d tried indicated he would earn a perfect score in each category, Justin didn’t see much sense in worrying about it. He decided he’d time himself on a couple more of the sample tests tomorrow morning - he’d have to go with simpler ones since he’d already completed the supposedly more difficult practice tests - and then consider himself ready.

Christ, even the wannabe beautician, her butcher boyfriend, and the bladder-challenged girl should be able to solve these maths problems with ease. As he thought that, he wondered whether he should give Daphne a heads-up - tell her to run through the SAT practice problems he’d written up for her and call it good. The blond lad debated about it for a few minutes, even going so far as to stand up, but then he remembered that his bestie and the cheerleader had made plans for some kind of phone study session, and that they were going to ring him if they got stumped.

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbled to himself, sinking back down in his chair. If he called, Sydney would probably use it as an excuse to skive off and pepper him with more embarrassing questions about his sex life. He sure as fuck didn’t want Debbie or Vic to overhear; they’d rag him mercilessly. Besides, he mused, his lips quirking in amusement, the blonde cheerleader really could use some more practice, and it wouldn’t hurt Daphne either.

Finishing up a rough sketch of a battle scene between even and odd numbers, Justin again twirled his pencil distractedly. He should do something that at least resembled studying, he determined, eyeing his textbooks. He couldn’t exactly chide Sydney for slack habits if he was no better, even if she never found out about it. With his luck, the girls would quiz him on Wednesday night about his test preparations, and he’d end up blabbing that all he’d done was doodle and give himself a sugar high.

Hmm, maybe he could continue with the work he had begun last Sunday and write another practice essay based on the guidelines in the SAT preparatory manuals. Or, better yet, as he’d previously considered doing, he’d analyse and revise his paper for Creative Writing using the principles for the SAT essays. That would at least be a worthwhile use of his time.

He’d just pulled out the last draft of his creative writing project when the house phone started to ring. Listening carefully to see if either Debbie or Vic would pick it up, he heard his mum’s fast footsteps in the hallway as she went to answer the old-fashioned telephone.

“Novotny,” he heard her muffled voice coming from downstairs. “Yeah. Of course, I’ll tell him.” And then a loud, “Sunshine!”

Justin poked his head out of his room. “Yeah?”

“It’s Lindsay!” Debbie yelled. “She wants to talk to you!”

Excited, because Lindsay calling him could mean only one thing - spending some time with Gus - the blond ran down the stairs quickly.

Pecking Debs on the cheek in thanks, he picked up the receiver. “Hey, Linds,” he greeted the blonde woman. “What’s up?”

“Hello, Justin,” the lesbian’s calm and polished voice answered him. “How are you?”

Immediately falling back on his country club upbringing, the teen said, “I’m quite well, thank you. And you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you for asking,” Lindsay returned. “How are you faring at school? Last I heard, you were quite busy.”

A little tired of the WASP back and forth - it would take another ten minutes for Lindsay to get to what she was actually calling about if this went on - Justin changed the pace of the conversation. “I’m not too busy to look after Gus every once in a while,” he told her in a cheeky tone. “You need me to do some babysitting?”

The blonde woman let out a controlled laugh. “Brian must have rubbed off on you,” she observed. “You always get straight to the point.”

The teenager smiled, rather pleased by the comparison to his ex. They did both possess the trait of being direct.

“I _was_ actually wondering if you’d be free to look after Gus one afternoon.” Lindsay continued speaking.

“Sure,” Justin hastily agreed. “I’m always happy to see the little tyke. What day did you have in mind?”

Lindsay paused as if she didn’t already have a specific date in mind, before answering, “How about the eighteenth? Would that work for you?”

As that was the day his Christmas break officially started, Justin knew he’d be free. “Yeah, I can do the eighteenth,” he confirmed. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Thank you, Justin,” Lindsay said, sounding genuinely grateful. “It would be a real help, and I’m sure the little lamb will be pleased to see his ‘Jushun’ again.”

The blond’s smile widened.

 

At the same time Justin was chatting with Lindsay, Brian was working up a sweat in the gym. After the sexual frustration of the night before - he’d spent most of his time at Babylon watching Justin gyrate his gyps to the rhythms of YMCA and Dancing Queen - he needed to let off some steam.

He was currently keeping a fast pace on the treadmill, breathing heavily but steadily as he neared the five kilometre mark. He was feeling a lot better, now that the cold-flu crud had been vanquished, and his performance improved accordingly. Sadly, Emmett had been leaving the gym just as Brian arrived, so he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to go head to head with the queen, but he had the feeling he could outperform him with how well he was feeling today.

When his treadmill display finally informed him he had reached his set goal, he slowed down to a walk to let his muscles gradually cool down as endorphins flooded his body.

“Don’t you look happy with yourself,” a dry voice commented from behind him.

“Theodore,” Brian greeted the man unenthusiastically without turning around. “What a joy to see you here.”

The accountant chuckled, patting Brian’s sweaty back. “I see you’re back in your usual form,” Ted noted, looking at the display in front of the younger brunet. “Five K in twenty-one minutes? That’s good.”

“Take a picture of it,” Brian snarked. “This is the only way you’ll ever see that.”

Theodore shrugged. “I’m happy if I make it in under half an hour,” he admitted. “I freely confess I’m not as fit as the two of you.”

It was only at Ted’s words that Brian noticed the tall man standing behind his friend. “Hello, professor,” he greeted Ben. “I’m sorry; I didn’t see you over the glare of my success.”

Ted rolled his eyes. “You’re back to normal all right,” he muttered. “Are you gonna laugh too much if I try my hand at five kilometres as well?”

Noticing the concerned frown on Ben’s face at the accountant’s words, Brian decided to dial back his attitude slightly. “Not too much, no,” he said. “I don’t know if you want to have the exact same setup I did, though; I had a two percent incline.”

Ben stepped closer, an interested expression on his face. “Is that a lot?” he asked.

Hesitating slightly - was the man joking him? - Brian replied, “No, not really. But it is noticeable. You never ran on an incline?”

The professor shook his head. “I’m not really one for cardio,” he explained. “Except for my morning jog, I only run to warm up, so I don’t hurt myself when lifting.”

“Everyone has different strengths,” Ted claimed, laying a comforting hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Really? What are yours?” Brian mocked. At Ben’s frown, he rolled his eyes. “Lighten up, professor, it’s all in jest.”

Ben was getting a little annoying, he thought. Sure, it was nice to see the professor was taking care of Theodore and that he was willing to defend him, but when it interfered with Brian’s way of conversing, he started to have a problem. Ted and he were used to their usual back and forth, and neither of them needed Ben messing with it.

Ted seemed to be of the same opinion. “Don’t worry about it, babe. I give as good as I get; I promise.”

Brian grinned, grabbing his towel and drying the sweat off his forehead. “That’s debatable,” he countered.

The accountant smirked. “Everything is debatable; that’s the principle of free speech,” he replied. “Now get your flat arse off that treadmill, so I can use it.”

With a short but genuine laugh, Brian moved on to some simple stretches, while Ben and Ted began their cardio.

The adman kept an eye on the two men as he stretched, snickering a little at the contrast between them. The heavily muscled professor lumbered along at a slow pace, while Theodore looked like a fleet gazelle next to him.

Brian had already switched to some light weightlifting when the other men finally finished their runs, and the brunet stud was happy to find out it had taken Ben just under fifteen minutes to complete a measly two kilometres.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t much of a runner,” he commented. “I think Debbie could outrun you.”

Ben chuckled, self-deprecating, muscles rippling under his t-shirt and sweats. “Yeah, I think I’m too heavy for running,” he theorised. “All this brawn isn’t very practical for cardio.”

Ted, still panting from his five K, squeezed his biceps in appreciation. “Sure look good, though,” he flirted.

The professor gave him a toothy smile, leaning down to peck Theodore’s lips. Brian averted his eyes. Couples in love were disgusting.

Ten minutes later, Brian’s high from his success on the treadmill was replaced by a feeling of frustration as he watched the hunky professor put the whole gym to shame with the barbells. It was annoying how many people managed to outperform him in weightlifting, the adman thought miserably. First it had been Dr Dave, then DC, and now it was the boring and unassuming Ben.

Then again, he realised, applying his logical mind to the situation, since he hadn’t focused his gym time much on weight lifting, it was no wonder he wasn’t as good as the men who basically did nothing but lift. Along the same vein, he was clearly outperforming them in cardio as they in turn hadn’t focused their training on that.

And he was still better than Ted at both cardio and weights, so there was that.

“Well, I’m beat,” the accountant announced, sweaty and panting in exertion. “I can’t do any more.”

Brian put away his weights. “I’m gonna finish up as well,” he joined in. “I’ll just do some light stretches again and then walk it off to wind down.”

Ted let out a weak huff. “Yeah, you do that,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll just plop down here and breathe.”

Ben, who was still going strong with his barbells, looked up in concern. “You didn’t overdo it, did you?” he asked.

The accountant waved him off. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, he always looks like he’s going to die when he’s done exercising,” Brian commented. “Unfortunately, he never does.”

The professor gave him a judging look, but Ted merely chuckled from where he’d collapsed on the floor. “You’d be lost without me, Bri,” he pointed out.

The brunet stud just snorted, knowing it was true.

 

In the midafternoon, Brian made his way to the diner. Just as he was congratulating himself on navigating the icy sidewalk without mishap, his left foot slid out from underneath him, and he had to execute an awkward hop-skip to correct his balance. At least he hadn’t landed on his keister again, he thought, shortening his stride and proceeding more carefully. The other plus was that no one had noticed him, the only other pedestrians in sight hastening to get into a warm shop or café.

After leaving Ript this morning, invigorated by his workout; his weigh-in - which had showed he was only a single ounce above his optimum weight; and the covetous glances cast his way by the other gym-goers - he was pretty sure he’d even caught the professor eyeing his lean physique admiringly - he’d returned to the loft, showered, and then powered up his computer. He’d then spent a fair amount of time exploring Mr Gizmo’s website - Christ, was there anything as boring as watching an automotive assembly line in action? - and scribbling some uninspired ad copy. Frustrated by his inability to make the gadget seem sexy, he’d dug into his stash, flopped down on the couch, and dreamed up some more new names for the Over the Rainbow bookshop under the haze of smoke. He’d laughed himself silly when ‘Leaves of Grass’ popped into his head. He’d had to discard that moniker, though; it might be tailor-made for him but something more family-friendly was needed for a community bookstore.

He and the blond brat were sure to come up with a few different good names, Brian had reassured himself. Hmm, speaking of the blond brat… Brian had glanced at his wristwatch as he took the final toke of a second doobie, startled when he realized it was going on three o’clock. He’d held the thumb and index finger of his right hand a miniscule distance apart, staring at the small separation owlishly; yep, that was exactly how close Justin was to giving in and fucking him again. That had been enough to get him up and moving - the latest phase of Operation Twat Retrieval involved spending as much time around the teen as possible, so he needed to get his cellulite-free arse over to the diner.

The brunet stud frowned as he pushed open the door, the jangle of the doorbell lost in the noise coming from the eatery. What the heck? It was the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, not lunchtime, dinner, or pre-clubbing hours - why the fuck were half the residents of the Pitts at the diner? He’d be lucky if Justin knew he was here, provided, of course, that he could even find a place to sit.

As he pushed his way through the crowd blocking the area by the door, he was assaulted by a, “Yo, Bri! Over here!” The holler was followed by an arm encased in a purplish sleeve snaking up above everyone’s heads, the fingers of the hand clasped together and swiveling to and fro like some kind of retarded duck puppet.

Resigning himself to his fate - he could hardly pretend he hadn’t seen the flamboyant man - he made his way over to the booth where Emmett was sitting, directly across from the counter. Brian winced, almost blinded, as he got an eyeful of the man’s outfit. The southerner had paired a basic, long-sleeved, crew-neck tee - well it would have been basic except for the godawful shade of purple and the fact that it exposed his midriff - with his favourite burnt orange pleather pants. “Mauve and orange _do not_ go together, Honeycutt,” he groused. “You trying to scare the tricks away?”

“Oh, pooh.” Emmett flapped a hand at him. “These pieces _do_ _so_ match. I’ve-” He paused when a good-looking, raven-haired guy came up to the booth, trailing the fingers of one hand along Em’s sternum before dipping lower and slipping a piece of paper into the waistband of his orange pants.

“Give me a call, cutie,” he invited, tossing a saucy wink over his shoulder before disappearing toward the back of the diner.

“That’s, like, the dozenth number I’ve gotten,” the queen informed Brian smugly as the older man sat down. “And I’ve already had two fast and furious fucks in the loo. So, you have to admit you’re wrong about my _fabulous_ ensemble.”

“They must be colour-blind,” Brian snarked.

“Riiight,” Em drawled, “all twelve of them.”

Brian shrugged. There could just be a large number of fags with poor taste, he supposed. He eyed the cups, saucers, and spoons that were already on the table; they looked clean, so it didn’t really matter to him how the dishware had gotten there as long as he got coffee soon. So far, he’d only had one latte that he’d picked up at Starbucks on his way home from Ript. He’d thought about battling with the so-called ‘simple’ Braun coffee maker in his loft but, with every intention of heading to the diner sooner rather than later, he didn't bother. Now, he was desperate for a fix.

While the tall southerner nattered on about the latest line at Torso - leopard print was in - two more potential tricks dropped slips of paper with their phone numbers into Emmett’s lap. Both were reasonably attractive, but neither one gave Brian more than a brief glance. The bottle-blond one chuntered on for a good five minutes about how he was going to bend Em over his sofa one time, then another, and another - and plough him like he’d never been ploughed before.

By the time the dude sloped off, even the confirmed nelly bottom looked a trifle taken aback as well as bored. “Lord have mercy,” he exclaimed, “I’ve never met someone so set on repeatedly fucking me over their couch. Is that some kind of new cra-”

His question remained uncompleted, Justin bustling up to their booth at that moment, a full carafe of coffee in one hand. “Hey, guys,” he greeted them a little breathlessly.

“Baby!” Em gave the teenager a gap-toothed smile as he stood up and hugged him.

Brian’s eyes narrowed as the coffee sloshed around and almost spilled out. He wanted the caffeine in his cup, not down the front of his new Paul Smith pullover and Armani jeans. The way the swishy queen was clasping Justin to his chest didn’t bother him. Really.

“I’ve been waiting for you to shake that cute tush of yours in my direction.” Emmett gushed.

“For fuck’s sake, Honeycutt, let the lad breathe,” Brian growled when the southerner showed no sign of letting go of the teenager. “You saw the brat just yesterday.”

Emmett sniffed disdainfully. “ _I_ wasn’t the one who monopolised his time. We barely exchanged a word.”

“Whatever,” Brian dismissed the protest. “It’s still no reason to act like a lezzie, hugging the boy and slobbering all over him.”

“ _Slobbering_ , huh?” the flamboyant queen inquired archly as he finally released Justin.

Fucking tease, Brian mused sourly, although it wasn’t clear to him which of the two men he meant, what with Justin grinning impishly at him. He shifted in his seat, attempting to ease the sudden constriction in his jeans. “I'd like my coffee sometime this century,” he grunted.

“Caffeine deprivation is a serious condition,” the blond drolled as he held the glass container of brown liquid over Brian’s cup but didn’t pour it.

Brian glared at the boy. Now what?

“I think Baby’s waiting for you to add some of this, Bri,” came Emmett’s voice, the sugar dispenser nudging against his hand.

“For fuck’s sake,” the brunet grumbled. Since he wanted his coffee, he nevertheless shook the usual _small_ amount of sugar into his cup, nearly sighing in relief as he watched the hot beverage land on the white granules.

“You guys want anything else?” Justin asked. “It’s a madhouse in here today, so I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“I’m good.” Emmett smiled brightly at the teen as he stirred a miniature tub of half-and-half into his coffee.

“Just stop by again when you’ve made a fresh pot,” Brian requested.

“Sure. I’ll make sure to refill the sugar container then too. You need sweetening up,” Justin giggled.

Before Brian could wisecrack that he was plenty sweet - the blond should have a taste - the teenager moved on to the next table, politely inquiring, “Coffee anyone?”

Deprived of a kiss, Brian grouched, “That stuff will clog your arteries,” gesturing at the second tub of half-and-half Em was peeling open.

“It’s no worse for me than all that sugar is for you,” the queen replied airily before launching into a critique of the fashion-challenged and out-of-shape queers who’d visited Torso over the past couple of days.

The adman tuned his friend out as he talked about an overweight bloke whose hairy belly had protruded over the waistband of the floral board shorts he was trying on - talk about gross - instead observing Justin as he flitted to and fro across the diner, serving the afternoon horde. It was really fucking annoying the way people were constantly flirting with the blond and touching him.

Jesus, Brian thought, his scowl growing as he watched a skinny carrot-top surreptitiously reach out and pinch Justin’s behind, he’d never realised how handsy the fags were at the diner. It was bad enough that the Bobby Boys - he still wasn’t sure how many of them there were - kept salivating over _his_ blond; he didn’t need to worry about every single diner customer on top of that. Not that the carrot-top stood a chance; he was pasty-faced and had a grating, hee-haw laugh, but Justin still shouldn’t have to put up with wandering hands at the diner. For fuck’s sake, it was a diner, not a bar like Woody’s or a club like Babylon.

“Bri,” the flamboyant queen sitting across from him chided, “that shade of green isn’t attractive on you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Honeycutt?” Brian asked, transferring his scowl to the tall southerner.

“Oh, please.” Emmett flapped a hand at him. “Your eyeballs look like they’re gonna pop out of your face, the way they’re fixed on Baby.”

“I just want another cup of coffee,” Brian claimed, draining the last of his brew.

Most of the eatery’s customers seemed to have finally found their seats, with new arrivals slowing to a trickle, so the brunet had a clear view of the door when it opened again. A bundled-up individual entered, only the tip of a red nose initially to be seen until the person unwrapped a long, knitted scarf in vibrant green hues and then removed a matching hat. Brian’s eyes narrowed when the lad’s features were revealed - it was that fucking Boy Bob who’d been kissing Justin the other day. As far as Brian was concerned, the brown-haired boy with the bland features and more than a touch of baby fat was responsible for the spill he’d taken in front of the diner. If he hadn’t put his hands and his fucking _lips_ where they didn’t belong, the adman wouldn’t have been so distracted that he’d stepped right onto a patch of iced-over cement.

“Gee, Bri, maybe you should order something to eat,” Emmett suggested. “That was a really weird sound you just made. It was like some kind of bizarre cross between your stomach gurgling and erupting.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Brian brushed off the other man’s faux concern, certain he hadn’t made any kind of noise, ‘weird’ or otherwise. He didn’t take his eyes off Bobbit for even a second as the boy made his way toward Justin, who was delivering meals to a neighbouring booth, where two dykes were sitting with four children, ranging from an infant to a maybe six-year-old. The oldest rugrat had been incessantly banging his silverware against the tabletop for the last ten minutes, giving Brian a  headache. He’d considered deserting Emmett and moving when a stool became vacant at the counter, but now he was glad he’d stayed put since he should be able to earwig the conversation between Bobby and the blond.

“Thanks, Justin,” the more butch lesbian said when the teenager served the little noisemaker first, the tot immediately cramming a handful of fries into his mouth. “Bobby’s just hungry,” the frazzled dyke explained; "he’ll calm down now that his food’s arrived.”

Brian snorted. Of course, the little troublemaker was a _Bob_. They were coming out of the fucking woodwork.

“No problem.” Justin smiled at both munchers as he placed the other plates in front of them so they could divvy out the food for the other tykes and themselves. “I get the same way when I’m hungry.”

Close enough, Brian thought, nodding sagely.

“You start bashing your utensils against the table?” the other lesbian joked, already busy cutting up the next oldest child’s food.

“Not any more,” the blond giggled, “but I used to be a champion at that, according to my m-” Justin stuttered briefly before getting out the word, “mum.”

“Fucking parents,” Emmett muttered.

“Yeah,” Brian sighed.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Justin offered once his hands were empty.

“What do you say, Bobby?” the bulldyke asked.

“Thanks, Jus,” little Bob said around a mouthful of half-masticated food.

Christ, his son already had better table manners, and he wasn’t even a year old, Brian reflected.

The blond ruffled the obnoxious kid’s hair and turned away from the table, bumping into the adult Bobby, who was now right behind him.

“Hiya, Justin,” Bob greeted him, reaching out a hand to steady the boy.

His blond, Brian noted, looked rather nonplussed. Maybe Boy Bob’s visit was unplanned.

Justin immediately confirmed Brian’s supposition. “Erm, I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

“I just thought I’d drop by,” Bob bestowed a sappy smile on the blond, “while I’m out shopping.”

Yeah, right. Brian rolled his eyes. The kid wasn’t carrying a single shopping bag.

“Uh, it was nice of you to think of me,” Justin murmured, smiling at the other lad, “but I won’t have much time to chat. It’s been crazy around here. I don’t know if it’s because of the upcoming holidays or what.”

Bobby shrugged, following Justin over to the counter, where the blond set about brewing another pot of coffee. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see you, you know?”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” Emmett clapped his hands in delight. “Baby’s got a beau.”

“There’s no need for the trained seal act, Honeycutt.” Brian gritted out. “Especially not for Boy Bob.”

The nelly queen shot him an affronted look, immediately retorting. “I _am not_ a trained-”

“Shush,” Brian ordered, cutting the irate man off. He was already straining to hear the boys over the noise of the other diners. He didn’t need the southerner yapping at him too.

Emmett glared at him but complied, obviously also keen to listen in.

“Heck, Jus,” the brown-haired boy declared, claiming an empty green stool and bracing his elbows on the counter, “you even look good in a plain white apron.”

“You admiring my assets?” the blond giggled, evidently wiggling his derriere if the wolf whistle from Bob was any indication.

Brian growled low in his throat. Why was Justin encouraging the loser?

“Darned tootin’,” Boy Bob replied enthusiastically.

Emmett evidently wasn’t impressed. “That kid, er, Bob,” he murmured, “sounds like an old fogey.”

“No shit,” Brian agreed. He glanced at the younger man, wondering why Em appeared to be choking back laughter.

“I mean, like,” Eric flirted some more, “everyone in here’s got their eyes on you, Jus.”

Well, duh. That was a no-brainer, Brian reflected, confident that lame pickup lines like that wouldn’t do Bobbit any good.

“Yeah, well,” Justin observed pragmatically, grinning at his friend, “my looks help me rake in the tips.”

The older lad eyed him assessingly. “Sure, Sunshine,” he concurred, giving Justin a shy smile.

How dare that fucker call Justin ‘Sunshine’? Brian wondered, glowering at Bob. That was a nickname only the blond’s adopted family and close friends used.

“But I think it’s that million-watt smile of yours,” Bob concluded, “that really does the trick.”

“The trick to get a trick?” Justin giggled.

“Anytime. Anywhere.” Boy Bob offered, striving to maintain a light tone, but failing miserably.

Justin was clearly startled by the serious turn to the conversation. He lowered his voice, so that Brian almost fell out of his seat, straining to hear what the blond would say next. “Uh,” the blond teen reminded the other boy, “you haven’t forgotten we’re just friends, right?”

“Nooo,” Bobby Boy acknowledged, drawing out the word. “But I think you should remember that you have other options. I mean, why pine away for some dude who’s not even around?”

Justin looked over at Brian, who laughed, pretending to be amused by something Emmett had said.

The nelly queen raised his eyebrows. “Give the man an Academy Award,” he joked. “That was _some_ acting.”

“Shut it,” Brian hissed, watching the blond from the corner of his eye and listening avidly for the next comment.

“I’m not pining,” Justin denied, though it wasn’t very believable. Especially when he added quietly, “Um, he’s here.”

“Yeah?” Eric asked, immediately scanning the diner. “Where?”

“I’m not gonna tell you if you can’t be cool about it,” the blond hissed. “I don’t want Br- uh, him, to know what we’re talking about, okay?”

“Sorry.” The older boy looked abashed. “I just wanna know who my competition is.”

“There’s no competition,” Justin insisted.

Bobby shrugged in sort of half-hearted agreement, although he didn’t look convinced.

It was evidently enough to satisfy Justin, who revealed, “He’s the brunet sitting with the colourful queen, in the booth directly behind you.”

Both Brian and Emmett started laughing when Bob waited barely two seconds before swivelling around on his stool and staring directly at them.

“Nooo,” Justin moaned, “don’t look right at him.”

“Don’t worry,” Bob countered, “they’re yacking about something or other. They have no clue I’m even here.”

The blond boy appeared dubious. Rightly so, Brian thought, snickering.

“Uh, the dude dressed in boring black?” Bob asked for clarification.

Brian bristled. Black was _never_ boring.

“Yeah,” Justin confirmed, giggling at Boy Bob’s remark.

 _"That’s_ him?” Bob asked, surprise clear on his face.

Justin nodded in agreement, inspecting the other boy’s sceptical frown. “Yeah, why? Something wrong?”

“Nothing!” the guy quickly disagreed, shaking his head vigorously. “Honestly! It’s just, I mean… he’s a bit-” he paused, clearly considering whether to continue with his statement or not. In the end, he found enough bottle to finish with a hesitant, “A bit skinny? And old?”

The blond student chuckled, seeming relieved. “You sound like Daphne,” he commented in amusement. Then, as if in afterthought, he added, “And he’s not that old.”

Brian scowled unhappily, noticing Justin hadn’t denied he was skinny. He was perfectly toned, thank you very much. Also, what the hell did ‘not that old’ mean? He wasn’t old at all!

Meanwhile the pipsqueak continued, “Well, I mean, he’s a bit…” he made an elaborate but completely meaningless gesture with his hands. “You know?”

“He’s Brian Fucking Kinney,” the blond teen told him, as if it explained everything.

“But what’s so special about him?” Bob asked him, frustration evident in his voice. “I mean, you could have literally anyone else - what makes him different?”

Justin shrugged, trying to sound casual, “Let’s just say he’s the guy I’ve fucked more than once.”

Brian winced. For the first time, he had an inkling as to how some of his offhand comments in the past might have hurt Justin, given the way he’d constantly reinforced that the blond wasn’t anything more than fuck. The day after Craig had beat him up - Justin bravely standing up to his father - he’d invited the lad to stay at his loft, but then spitefully told the teen he was sorry he was there. Finally, he’d driven home his point by staggering into the loft with Mr Hotlanta and referring to Justin as an ‘out of town guest.'

Small wonder, he thought, wincing again, that Justin hadn’t been interested in experiencing his first threesome that night. He must’ve felt just about as unwelcome in Brian’s bed as he did in the loft, given the way he’d stormed off to Mel and Lindsay’s house. Still adamant about not offering the lad a place to stay, he’d then tried to return Justin to his parents. That look the kid had sent him… it seemed almost like he was giving up on Brian. Fortunately, Craig had opened his big mouth and spewed hate, offering Brian an easy way to rectify matters. Would Justin have stayed at the loft, though, if he’d had anywhere else to go? Or would he and his fugly duffel bag have simply disappeared one day, and… The stud’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. Would the boy have come back to him?

Christ, he mused, his life would be fucking boring without the blond brat. He wouldn’t miss just the scorching sex, but also the way the lad challenged him, the way they laughed together; fuck, he’d even miss those random public service announcements, which he always pretended not to listen to while, in actuality, absorbing every damned word. The brunet sighed, finally admitting to himself that he wanted Justin for more than a fuck buddy.

On the heels of that revelation, Bob piped up again, “Well, I for one think you could do better.”

Heartily sick of the punk’s grating voice and the way he was toadying up to Justin, Brian wished he could defenestrate Bob, right through the diner’s plate-glass window. Enough of the farcical tête-à-tête, he decided, holding up his coffee cup and calling out in a saccharine tone, “Sunshine! I’m still waiting for that refill.”

The blond jumped a little at the interruption and glanced over at Brian, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Lounging against the back of the banquette, Brian sent him his best innocent look in return.

“Well, there goes your Oscar,” Emmett drolled. “Pity, your acting was stellar till now.”

The teenager expressed his opinion of Brian’s antics with a roll of his eyes, but he nevertheless promptly snagged the freshly brewed pot of coffee from the hotplate and trotted over to his booth.

Did the blond lad maybe look a little relieved to have his chinwag with Boy Bob disrupted? Brian speculated, pleased by the notion. He was less pleased to note that Bobbit was right behind Justin, shadowing him like a faithful lapdog.

“Another cup for you Em?” the waiter asked brightly, ignoring Brian.

Little shit, the brunet thought fondly.

“Why, yes, Baby, thank you kindly,” the willowy man replied, his southern manners on display. As Justin refilled his cup, he inquired, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Huh?” Justin asked in puzzlement.

“To your admirer,” Emmett, explained, waving a hand at a spot behind the blond teenager.

Justin looked over his shoulder, a frown marring his face when he realised Bob was standing right behind him.

“Yeah, Sunshine,” Brian seconded, his tone mocking, “why don’t you introduce us to your _little friend_?”

Bobby didn’t wait for Justin to perform the introductions. His chin jutting out pugnaciously, he stepped up next to the blond and announced, “I’m Eric. Who’re you?”

What the hell? This doofus wasn’t named Bob? The confused stud stared blankly at the boy. Who the fuck were the Boy Bobs then? After a few seconds, Brian dismissed the matter as inconsequential, having discovered an easy solution to the plague of Bobs - he’d just keep _his_ blond too busy to see anyone else except him.

“I’m Emmett. Emmett Honeycutt,” came a voice from the other side of the table. “Any friend of Baby’s is a friend of mine.”

“Eric,” the not-quite-Bob repeated, turning his head toward Emmett, his tone considerably friendlier. “Uh, _Baby_?”

“Eric,” the blond boy forestalled the gossip queen’s response, “it’s really not any of your business.”

A hurt expression descended over Bob-not-Bob’s countenance.

Before Justin could rephrase and make the dingleberry feel better, Brian intervened. “Why don’t you run along home and play with your Tinker Toys, Edrick?” he sneered. “And let Justin get back to work.”

“Brian,” Justin chastised, the word emerging oddly strangled.

The brunet gave himself a mental pat on the back when he realised the blond was struggling not to laugh.

“Look,” Justin said, placing a consoling hand on Edrick’s arm - or maybe it was Podrick? - and guiding him back to the counter, “I’d like to be friends-”

“You forgot something, Sunshine,” the brunet interjected.

When the blond threw an irritated glance over his shoulder, Brian again lifted his cup off the table.

Justin stormed back, a muscle in his cheek jumping and, without uttering a word, filled Brian’s cup up the brim. He then turned on his heel and rejoined Podrick, speaking to the boy so quietly that the brunet couldn’t eavesdrop.

“Well, fuck,” Brian muttered. Not only had he pissed off the blond boy, but there was also no room for him to add even a teaspoon of sugar to his cup of coffee. He really despised the taste of unsweetened coffee - it was like drinking motor oil - but he supposed he could force down a swallow or two. Better yet… “How about I top yours up?” he offered, pushing his overfull cup closer to the flashy man and leaning forward to spoon some of the liquid into Emmett’s cup.

“No thanks,” he refused Brian’s generous offer, drawing his cup and saucer closer to his side of the table.

Brian raised a questioning eyebrow. What the fuck was the younger man’s problem?

“You shouldn’t have been so mean to Eric,” Em blurted, his lower lip sticking out a little.

“What? Are we in kindergarten, Honeycutt?” the brunet mocked his friend.

“Pish.” The nelly bottom flapped a hand at Brian. “He’s a nice boy.”

“That’s the problem in a nutshell. Derrick is a _nice boy_.” Brian claimed, emphasising the final words. “He’s dull as dishwater. Justin would get bored with him in less than a week and throw him over, so I did Podrick a favour, letting him know he doesn’t stand a chance.”

The tall queen shook his head at him, chuckling, “You’re such a jealous dog in the manger, Bri. If you can’t have Justin, no one-”

“Don’t be absurd.” Brian rubbed at his chest as he cut the other man off. Fucking acid reflux was getting worse, he thought in annoyance. “I’m just looking out for the lad’s best interests. I don’t do jealousy.”

“Liar, liar, Prada on fire!” Emmett retorted, voice rising.

Six-year-old Bobby clambered around in the next booth, standing up on the seat and staring accusingly at Brian. “Liar!” he shouted.

“Bobby!” the bulldyke hissed, tugging her son back down. “Don’t go calling a stranger a liar.”

“But, Mama,” the child protested, “the other guy called him a liar, and he sweared on _pravda_ . And since Oma tolded me how _pravda_ is truth, he gots to be a liar.”

By that point, Emmett was laughing so hard that tears were coming out of his eyes.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Brian complained in disgust, “it’s a conspiracy of Bobs.”

 

Five minutes later, the door to the diner opened again, the bell above it jingling happily. Justin, who was just serving a table right by the door, had to move out of the way to let the newcomers pass.

“Hello, Justin,” a deep but pleasant voice greeted him, Detective Horvath smiling at the blond as he held the door for his Chinese partner. “I thought you might be working today.”

The teen returned the smile, genuinely happy to see the copper. “Hi, Carl. Hello, Detective Wen,” he replied. Then, looking around the busy diner, he added, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for a bit if you want to sit down; it’s ridiculously packed in here.”

“We’re not here to stay,” the bulky man assured him, moving with Justin to the counter. “We just came to get some fuel for our stakeout this evening.”

The blond grinned. “An actual stakeout? What’s that like?” he wondered, having only heard about such things from TV cop shows.

Horvath smiled conspiratorially, leaning closer as if to share some big secret. “Boring as hell,” he divulged, eyes brightening when Justin laughed. “Probably wouldn’t be so bad,” he continued, “if my partner wasn’t-” he cut himself off, turning to check where Wen was. The woman was standing a couple paces behind Carl, face impassive as usual and dark eyes scanning her surroundings casually. She didn’t look more threatening than normal but, to Justin’s amusement, there seemed to be a constant perimeter of a couple metres around her as no one dared to place a foot any closer. This was a particularly impressive feat in the crowded diner.

“Ming,” Horvath called out. “Stop scaring the good people of Pittsburgh and come order what you want to eat.”

The Asian woman gave her partner an unimpressed look, not moving an inch from where she stood. Justin even watched one of the butch dykes in a biker leather jacket carefully inch around the detective on her way to the toilets.

Carl rolled his eyes. “She’ll have a coffee and some kind of salad,” he told Justin. “She’s not picky.”

The blond hmmed in acknowledgment, jotting the order down on his pad. “We have bulgur with shrimp; that all right?”

“Sure,” Horvath agreed. “And make the coffee as strong as possible - to the point of it being undrinkable, no sugar or milk. She basically drinks battery acid. I once took a sip by accident and thought my stomach would dissolve.”

Justin glanced at Wen in suspicion, trying to see if she showed any signs of her stomach dissolving. It didn’t look like it, as far as he could tell.

“And for you?” he asked, eyes back on the bulky detective.

“I’ll have normal coffee, one sugar, and one of those hamburgers with fries.” the cop ordered. “I really shouldn’t, because I’m trying to lose some weight, but stakeouts are special circumstances.”

The blond chuckled. “I bet. Must be hard to be sitting holed up somewhere for long stretches of time with nothing to do.”

“Tell me about it,” Horvath sighed, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to where Wen was standing. “And that one is no help,” he complained. “She’s all ‘You talk too much’ and ‘I can kill you with a coffee cup’ anytime I try to strike up a conversation.”

Justin winced, face sympathetic. “She really that bad?” he asked worriedly, glancing at the woman in question as he set up a new, stronger, pot of coffee. She was still standing in the middle of the diner, seemingly completely unaware of the way people avoided her like the plague.

Carl chuckled. “Nah, she’s all right,” he dismissed the teen’s worry. “I just like to complain. I wouldn’t actually trade her for anyone else - she’s saved my arse more times than I can count.”

“Good,” the blond said with feeling. “I would hate for anything-”

“Justin?” Eric interrupted him, looking hesitant. “I’m sorry to disturb you but, uh, the Asian server is asking for you? There are tables waiting?”

Feeling chastened, Justin blushed. “Sorry, I forgot myself a bit.” Waving at Harry to show him he’d be right there, he smiled apologetically at Carl. “Sorry, I gotta go. I’ll bring you your food as soon as it’s ready.”

The copper patted his shoulder warmly. “Sure, no problem. I’ll try and move Wen a bit to the side, so she doesn’t drive away all of your customers,” he replied, glancing pointedly at the pair of queens that had walked in only to abruptly leave again. Justin figured they might have got discouraged by the way the diner was packed, rather than by the Asian detective, but was grateful for the offer nonetheless. It was better to be safe than sorry.

He made his way quickly to where Harry was busy serving two tables of demanding queens, stopping only to slap the detectives’ order onto the sill of the kitchen pass-through and shout to bring it to the cook’s attention.

“I’m so sorry, Hazza-Bear,” he apologised. “I forgot myself.”

The Asian grinned at him, wiping the slight sheen of sweat off his forehead. “No problem, it was just starting to get a bit too much.”

The blond bit his lip, feeling bad. “What do you need me to do?”

“You could take table three? They look a bit, uh, difficult.”

Glancing briefly at the couple of posh-looking women sitting at the corner table near the window, Justin internally winced. They looked difficult, all right. They weren’t exactly the picture of typical diner goers - their expensive clothes, manicured nails, and styled hair clearly shouting money. Then again, Brian was also minted, and he had no problem with the diner, so perhaps they wouldn’t be too bad.

He headed for the table, but before he had taken two steps, Harry stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. “Wait,” he whispered secretively. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s that hot, deadly-looking chick?” the Vietnamese waiter asked with a lewd grin, fluttering his eyelashes at Wen, who was now standing off to the side at her colleague’s urging.

Justin snorted with barely suppressed laughter. “Forget about it, mate. First of all, she could be your mother,” he told the cheeky twenty-year-old. “And second, she would eat you for breakfast.”

Harry just smiled dreamily. “But what a way to go,” he joked.

Rolling his eyes at his friend’s outrageous behaviour, Justin turned abruptly and went to serve his table.

Difficult was an understatement when it came to the occupants of table number three. The women were demanding, uptight, and pretentious - they could have given Tannis a run for her money - and Justin had to reach deep into his WASP reserves in order to keep smiling all throughout their order. He was therefore happy when the bell in the kitchen window rang, followed by the words, “Number fifteen to go, order up.”

Hurrying over to pick up the order, he grabbed the shrimp salad and the styrofoam box with the burger and fries, carefully shoving them into a plastic bag.

“Here it is,” he announced, placing the bag in front of Detective Horvath. “I’ll just pour the coffees, shall I?”

Carl smiled. “Don’t worry, son; take your time. We’re not supposed to be there till half five; we’ve still got over fifteen minutes.”

Pouring one cup from the usual carafe for the male detective, he added the requested one sugar and capped it off, before moving to the newly brewed pot. Eyeing nervously the deep black liquid inside, he raised an eyebrow at Carl, one hand hovering over an empty paper cup with the carafe.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I’d hate for Debbie to get sued over Detective Wen having a heart attack.”

The bulky man chuckled. “Just pour it in, boy; she’ll be fine,” he assured him. “Just be sure not to give that swill to anyone else in here, or you might just get that lawsuit,” he added humorously.

“I won’t,” Justin promised, filling up Wen’s cup.

“Justin,” Eric appeared again, coming to stand right next to the blond. “I’m gonna go, okay? It’s pretty busy in here and I still have to study anyway.”

Justin smiled at him. “Sure, sorry I couldn’t be better company.” After his thoughtless remark in front of Brian and Emmett, it had taken him a while to reassure the other teenager that he did want to be friends, but he was glad he’d made the effort. He loved Daph - and Syd was becoming a good friend - but this was the first time he’d had a guy friend close to his own age.

The older student waved him off. “Nonsense, you’re always good company,” he told him with a private twinkle in his eye. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

Giving Eric a one-armed hug - the other hand still holding the deadly coffee carafe - Justin noticed Carl looking at him curiously.

“What?” he asked, cheeks pinkening in self-consciousness.

“Your boyfriend?” the detective wondered, pointing at Eric with his chin.

“What? No!” he denied quickly, stepping away from the other boy. “No, Eric is just a friend.”

Carl hmmed thoughtfully, though he didn’t press the issue.

“Um, so,” Eric stuttered, looking awkward. “I’ll see you around,” he said, and with that he quickly took his leave.  

The detective chuckled. “Well, didn’t he look disappointed,” he remarked. “You sure you’re just friends?”

“Yes,” Justin stated resolutely. Grabbing the bag with the food, he handed it to the detective along with both coffees. “Here you go.”

Getting rid of the dangerous coffee cup by immediately handing it to Wen who conveniently appeared at his shoulder, Carl squeezed the blond’s shoulder. “All right, I won’t pry any more. How much do I owe you?”

Glancing at the till, the teen read, “Fourteen seventy-five.”

The detective handed him a twenty and with a genially uttered, “Keep the change,” he and Wen finally left the diner.

It amused Justin immensely that as soon as the door closed behind the coppers, a general sense of relief exuded from the other diner patrons. One could almost literally see everyone relax into their chairs, tension easing up.

Noticing that table three was starting to look a little antsy, he carefully set down the deadly carafe and went to ask if he could be of any help. The women demanded he bring them something to snack on while they waited for their food.

“I am on a very strict schedule with my medication,” one of them, a blonde with a sharp face, informed him. “And I require to eat something with it.”

Justin hurriedly thought about what he could whip up himself behind the counter. A bowl of crisps? Or nuts? That probably wasn’t what the two women had in mind. Remembering the jar of olives Debbie kept for her non-alcoholic martinis, the teen had a stroke of genius.

“I can offer you a cheese platter with olives,” he told them, watching intently for their reactions.

The blonde tilted her head slightly in consideration but her brunette friend, whose face could use some of her companion’s sharp lines with how round and lacking in definition it was, brightened. “That sounds wonderful, Charity!” she exclaimed, giving her companion’s hand a pat.

Charity nodded, briefly curling her hand around the other woman’s. “Very well, we’ll have the cheese platter,” she allowed in a cool voice, pulling a bottle of pills out of her designer handbag. “And some water to wash it down,” she added.

Justin nodded servicefully, before rushing to put together the order. Leaning into the kitchen window, he asked the cook, “You have any of that garlic and herb cheese left from yesterday?”

Fahad looked up from the stove, where he was whipping up someone’s order of spicy omelette. “Yeah, in the fridge. Why?”

“Could you hand it to me?” the blond asked.

The cook shrugged, setting the pan aside so as not to burn the eggs and walking over the the fridge. He was pulling out a block of the herb cheese, when Justin noticed an unopened package of feta right next to it. “Hand me that feta too?” he asked. “I won’t use all of it, I promise.”

The Iranian grabbed both blocks of cheese wordlessly, plopping them down in front of Justin. “Here. Now can I go back to my omelette? Any longer and it will end up all rubbery and I’ll have to throw it out.”

The blond grinned. “Sure, sorry,” he apologised for the interruption and quickly left the cook to his craft.

It didn’t take him long after that to cut up both the cheese and the olives, spreading the food on a clean plate and drizzling a little bit of olive oil over the whole thing. He then grabbed a wicker bowl with fresh bread and carried both to table number three.

The women didn’t even thank him for his efforts when he set the food in between them, just tucking into the cheese platter with manicured hands, but they did seem pleased, so Justin still counted it as a win.

“Yoo-hoo! Sunshine!” Emmett called out, getting his attention.

Justin hurried over to his friends’ booth. “Yes?”

The flamboyant queen flapped his hand at an annoyed looking Brian. “The bear needs some coffee before he takes my head off,” he said. “God knows why he’s in such a bad mood,” he added with a pointed look at the brunet.

Brian scowled even more. “I’m not in a bad mood,” he grunted.

“Right,” Emmett snarked, “and I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

The blond grinned. “Well…” he trailed off jokingly.

Brian rolled his eyes at their antics, lip twitching slightly in suppressed amusement. “Just pour me some coffee, brat,” he ordered, though his voice was fond.

Smiling, Justin grabbed a pot off the counter and topped off the brunet’s cup. “Anything else I can do you for, Mr Kinney?” he flirted, leaning on the edge of the table with his hip cocked.

Brian gave him a playful smile, eyes promising various dirty things Justin could do for him as he poured in sugar and took a sip of his beverage. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the adman screwed up his face comically, eyes watering. He swallowed his mouthful painfully, coughing when he was no longer in danger of spewing the liquid out. “What the hell, Justin? Are you trying to kill me?” he rasped.

The blond belatedly realised what had happened. “Oh my God, Brian, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, hurriedly taking the offending cup from the brunet’s hands. “That was special coffee for Detective Wen; I should’ve poured it out.”

Brian looked like he had swallowed a frog. “ _That_ was coffee? Fuck,” he swore.

“I’m sorry,” Justin apologised again, feeling genuinely bad. “I’m gonna go pour it out, and I’ll bring you a new cup,” he promised.

Brian stopped him with a tug on his apron. “Wait, Justin. Don’t pour it all out; that would be a waste. Just add some water to make it weaker,”  he told him, face still looking pained. Then, clearing his throat, he added, “A _lot_ of water.”

Feeling completely stupid, the teen bit his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, apologising yet again.

“Hey,” Brian tugged him closer, pulling the smaller man into his lap and chucking him under the chin. “No harm done.”

Justin heaved a shuddering sigh, leaning into the brunet. “I feel like an idiot. Carl even told me to be careful and not give the coffee to anyone else, and what do I do?”

Emmett patted his hand from across the table. “It could’ve happened to anyone, Baby,” he assured him. “The diner’s real busy; no wonder your head is all over the place.”

Watching Harry set a plate of chilli cheese fries in front of a hungover looking queen - and how could someone already have an hangover at half past five in the afternoon? - Justin couldn’t help but feel envious. The Asian looked put together, flirting whenever he went, the barely visible sheen of perspiration on his forehead the only sign of stress. Was it possible that things were starting to get a bit much for Justin?

Sinking into Brian’s warm embrace a little more, Justin rubbed at his tired eyes. “I might be a little worn out,” he admitted. “I didn’t sleep much.”  

“Table number three, order up!” came a shout from the kitchen window, accompanied by a ring of the bell.

“And I’m off again,” Justin huffed, heaving himself up from Brian’s lap clumsily. Picking up the deadly carafe, he smiled at his ex - future? - lover. “Thanks, Bri, I feel a lot better.”

The brunet shrugged. “Whatever. Just don’t try to kill me again,” he joked.

When the clock finally chimed six, Justin was ready to pack it in. The diner was no longer as crowded as it had been half an hour before, but the blond was beat.

Sliding into the booth next to Brian, the blond dropped his head to the table surface with a groan. “I can’t,” he complained. “I don’t want to see another customer ever again.”

Brian ran a hand up and down Justin’s spine, blunt nails scratching through his shirt. “Not even me?” he teased.

Justin grumbled something unintelligible. The hand on his back was making him sleepy, the ruckus of the diner becoming a comforting white noise. If he could just nap for a couple seconds-

“Jus,” Brian’s voice in his ear brought him back out of his half slumber. “I think the two wenches over by the window are ready to pay.”

Looking up blearily, the blond could see the two swanky ladies pulling out their undoubtedly very expensive wallets, looking around for a waiter to bring them their bill.

Heaving himself up as fast as he could - he wasn’t about to lose out on the money if the two women decided to just walk - he nodded at them with a smile to let them know he was on it, and walked over to the till.

The bill made thirty dollars and fifteen cents, including the improvised cheese platter. Justin carried it over, slapping a professional smile on his face and straightening his spine like a good, little, country club kid.

Sliding the check onto the table, he announced the total.

The sharp-faced blonde - Charity, if Justin remembered correctly - pulled a crisp fifty out of her Louis Vuitton wallet, handing it to the teen. “Here,” she told him with a snobby half-smile. “I don’t have anything smaller; you can keep the change.”

Startled by the sudden generosity, he gaped at her. “Um, this is a lot. Are you sure, madam?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied primly. “You’ve done a perfectly adequate job of serving us today, so you deserve some compensation.”

Huh. Rich people were ridiculous, he thought to himself. “Thank you very much, madam,” he said. Then, nodding politely first at Charity and then at Round Face, he told them cheerfully, “We’ll be happy to have you back.”

“I’m sure you will,” Round Face replied equally as enthusiastically, gathering her things. She was probably just happy she hadn’t had to pay, Justin reckoned.

When he returned to where Brian and Emmett were still sitting, he showed them the note with President Grant’s face. “They just tipped me almost twenty bucks,” he told them in amazement.

Brian snorted. “Stuck-up show-offs,” he commented.

The blond shrugged. “I don’t even care, because _this_ ,” he waved the money in front of Brian’s face pointedly, “was worth all the effort I put into serving those two.”

Emmett clapped his hands excitedly. “At least now you have some cash to go shopping with me. We’ll get you some new shoes!” he exclaimed.

Justin rubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously. “Yeah,” he mumbled, scuffing the duct-taped toe of his left shoe against the floor. “I guess my trainers have seen better days.”

Brian snorted. “That’s an understatement,” he commented a little snidely. “What did you do, run them through a wood chipper?”

Glaring at his ex, the blond retorted, “Not everyone can afford a new pair of Prada, or whatever those are, every other week.” He motioned towards Brian’s pair of brown winter loafers.

“Pravda,” Emmett sniggered.

“Gucci,” the brunet corrected him, glaring at both of them.

Was there actually a Pravda line of shoes? Justin shrugged, a trifle embarrassed that he didn’t know. “Whatever,” he mumbled, feeling defensive. “Not all of us are label queens.”

“Clearly,” the brunet muttered, eyeing Justin’s taped-up shoes. “Those are a disgrace.”

“Just ignore the Big Bad,” Emmett recommended. “His eyes aren’t really focused on your feet, Sweetie.”

Brian went to argue some more, when he noticed the pinkening of Justin’s cheeks. The boy was embarrassed, he realised. “True,” he agreed with Emmett, instead of needling the teen again. “You have other assets that easily overshadow your horrible footwear.”

Justin rolled his eyes, cocking his hip. “Let me guess - my ass?”

Going for the kill, Brian leaned closer, looking Justin dead in the eye. “Your smile, I meant,” he disclosed, ignoring the stifled "Aww" coming from Emmett at his words.

The blond blushed furiously, a bright smile tugging at his lips. “Really?”

Brian rolled his lips in between his teeth, giving Justin a raised eyebrow. Score one for Kinney, he thought victoriously.

“We may not be able to improve on that glorious smile of yours, Baby,” the tall queen declared, “but we can certainly find some sexy briefs to properly showcase your second-best feature. When is it, again, that your shift ends?”

“Um,” Justin consulted his cheap Timex, blinking in surprise when he realised it was past six o’clock. “Eighteen minutes ago?”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Emmett asked. “Go get rid of your apron and we’ll be on our merry way.”

“Harry,” the blond called as the Asian waiter returned from the back of the eatery, “have you seen Kiks?”

“No,” Harry groaned, setting a tub of dirty dishes on the table between Brian and Emmett, before placing his hands on his hips and leaning from side to side to stretch out his back.

Brian reared back from the dirty dishes, wondering what the congealed green stuff could be that was crusted on a number of plates. It looked suspiciously like regurgitated spinach.

With a cheeky grin, the Vietnamese waiter continued, “But I’m looking forward to giving the tranny a taste of her own medicine. I’ll razz her all night about showing up late and leaving it to _me_ to pick up the slack.”

“Well, if you really want to pour it on thick, you won’t mind if I leave now, right?” Justin asked, grinning at Harry.

The Asian boy heaved a gusty sigh as a large group of customers trooped into the diner. “I must have been insane to pick up an extra shift on a Saturday,” he griped. “But, yeah, you can go, Jus. You’ve covered for me more times than I can count.”

“I’m outta here then,” the blond announced, removing his apron and handing it to Harry. He then turned to his flamboyant friend, inquiring, “How are you at speed shopping, Em?”

“What?” Emmett squawked. “One should never shop in haste.”

Brian snorted. “You tell him,” he cheered on the flashy queen. “The one time I took Justin with me, he complained the whole time about how long it was all taking. He behaved like a complete straight guy.”

“Please,” Justin demurred. “No one but you would take an hour to decide between three sleeveless shirts in identical shades of black.”

“Oh, I bet the fabric was different, right?” Emmett questioned excitedly. “That can have a big impact on how the fabric feels, how the light reflects off the material, whether it clings to your skin.”

Brian had to laugh at the way the blond brat’s eyes had glazed over, clearly bored to death even by the short discussion. “Good luck with getting Justin to wear clothes from anyplace other than the Gap,” he told Emmett.

“At least it’s a step up from the Big Q,” the southerner commented, shrugging philosophically as he slid out of the booth.

“Some step up,” Brian mumbled under his breath, catching Justin’s hand as the blond turned to move away from the table. “Hey, no kiss goodbye?” he complained, shifting around so that he was sitting sideways on the bench.

The blond looked around, as if checking whether anyone was watching, before moving into the V of Brian’s legs. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the teenager teased, eyes dipping to watch the brunet’s lips.

Tugging his boy closer still, Brian hmmed in agreement. “I would. Now gimme, Sunshine.”

Justin chuckled, shaking his head slowly in amusement, as he leaned down to peck Brian’s mouth. “Like that?”

With a hand on the back of the lad’s neck, Brian brought his head down some more, so he could kiss him properly. Justin propped his hands high on the brunet’s thighs for balance, and they both moaned into the kiss as their tongues slid together.

They only separated when Emmett cleared his throat. “As much as I am loving the show,” the queen deliberated, “I think you said something about not having much time?”

Pulling away from Brian, Justin licked his lips. “Yeah, sorry, Em,” he apologised, eyes not leaving Brian’s face.

The queen cleared his throat again. “Guys!”

Emmett clasped a hand to the front of his neck, rasping, “Cripes, Baby,” as he and Justin finally exited the diner. “I have a sore throat from how many times I had to clear it before you two lovebirds finally separated.”

 

“Those are too expensive, Em,” Justin complained, eyeing the skimpy, cobalt blue briefs his tall friend was dangling in front of him.

“You get what you pay for,” his tall friend opined, waving the sexy briefs to and fro.

Justin giggled. “Next to nothing?”

Glancing down at the scanty undergarment, the queen burst out laughing. “In this case,” he asserted, “less is more.”

The teenager cast a skeptical look at Emmett.

“It’s true,” the flamboyant man insisted. “The more of your luscious tush that’s exposed, the better.”

Maybe his baggy tighty-whities weren’t so bad Justin thought, suddenly unsure about displaying even more skin. “Erm, will those even cover my package?” the boy asked, eying askance the insubstantial garment.

“They expand,” Emmett declared, winking at the blond as he stretched the blue briefs between his hands. “Come on,” he encouraged the indecisive teen, “this colour will really set off that porcelain skin of yours, Baby.”

“What if I buy these instead?” Justin suggested, picking up a plastic-wrapped packet with three briefs inside, each a different colour. “They cost only a buck more than the ones you’re holding; there’s three of them; and this shade of blue isn’t bad.”

“Please, honey, how can you say that?” Emmett objected, flapping one hand agitatedly. “You’re an artist, for fuck’s sake. That pale shade of blue would be horrible against your skin. It’d make you look like you’re anaemic or something.”

“But, I really can’t afford them,” Justin spluttered. “And I need more than one pair; I can hardly wear the same pair two days in a row.”

The sales clerk, probably scenting a sale, sidled over to Justin and Emmett at that moment. He looked the blond up and down, his eyes lingering on the boy’s behind. “I know you from somewhere,” he said, his brow furrowing; “I could never forget a shapely derriere like yours.”

Justin giggled at the more polite version of Debbie’s “I never forget a butt,” remembering turning around in Woody’s so that the redhead could examine his behind.

“That’s undoubtedly because you’re used to seeing the lad unclothed,” Emmett remarked.

“No,” the man mused, rubbing his chin, “I definitely haven’t seen that delectable rear end at my favourite strip club. I’d have no trouble recognising it, naked or not.”

“Wrong type of club.” Em informed the salesman.

“Aha! You’re the newest go-go boy at Babylon,” the bloke finally identified Justin. “If I’d seen you before Smythe got his hands on you, I’d have sent you over to Dick’s Cabaret. It’s not too late, you know; a luscious boy like you would be swimming in Benjamins.”

Despite his embarrassment, Justin giggled some more as his mind came up with a picture of himself surrounded by clones of Professor Ben, instead of hundred dollar bills.

“Baby’s just fine where he is,” Emmett declared, interposing his body between the oily clerk and Justin when the man tried to cop a feel of the blond’s arse. “What we could do for _you_ , however,” he proposed, “is tell all the fags in Babylon exactly where he purchases his briefs - and give them your name so you get the sales commissions.”

“In return for?” the man inquired warily.

“Nothing much,” Emmett replied. “Just, say, three pairs of these briefs for the price of one.”

“But they’re our most expensive underpants!” the clerk squawked.

“They’ll be selling like hotcakes,” the southerner wheedled. “And none of the fags we tell about your shop will quibble at the asking price, not if they think the briefs will make their tushes look like Baby’s.”

 

“Geesh, Em, that clerk was putty in your hands,” Justin stated admiringly as they hoofed it over to Second Hand Job a few minutes later. “You really know how to strike a bargain.”

“Pfft. That was nothing, especially since I was being honest about that obsequious little toad experiencing an influx of new customers,” the nelly queen pronounced. “He’s not fool enough to believe that no one else will dicker over the cost of the briefs; they’re adorable but vastly overpriced. Even with me making a deal for you, he’ll still have earned a ten to fifteen percent profit. Marking items way up is just a trick of the trade.”

“Are you giving away salesgirl secrets?” someone inquired coyly before emitting a husky laugh.

Glancing to his left, Justin exclaimed in delight, “Marvella!” He was so busy chatting with Em that he hadn’t realised they were already at the consignment shop.

“Doll,” the drag queen greeted him, placing air kisses on either side of his face. “And I remember you from the garage sale,” she addressed Emmett, eyeing him appreciatively. “You have a wonderful sense of style, hon.”

Em preened, twirling around to show off his outfit. “I’m Emmett Honeycutt,” he introduced himself. “I’ve been dying to check out your little boutique. It’s ever so much nicer than Torso, where I’m stuck whiling away my days until I get my party planning business off the ground.”

“Huh.” Marvella tapped an orange-polished fingernail against her chin. “I’ve been planning to have a grand opening shindig for Second Hand Job. If I give you the deets, maybe you can come up with some suggestions?”

“Grand openings are my specialty,” Emmett claimed.

The blond hastily stifled a laugh since, as far as he knew, the first opening gala that his friend would handle was the one for Kinnetik.

“What’s in the bag, doll?” Marvella inquired as she finished hanging up a couple of garments on the outdoor bargain rack and led the way into the shop.

“Just the most darling briefs ever,” Emmett answered for Justin. “Baby’s going to drive the fags at Babylon mad with lust when he wiggles around on the bar while wearing them tonight.”

“There’s really only one fag I want lusting after me,” Justin confessed as he pulled out the briefs.

“Oh, honey, Big Bad’s tongue will be hanging down to his knees when he gets an eyeful of you in these underpants.” Emmett assured him.

“Big Bad?” Marvella arched her eyebrows in inquiry.

“He’s just a wannabe bad boy, like James Dean,” Emmett cavalierly dismissed Brian with a wave of his hand.

“Or Patrick Swayze,” Justin giggled.

“Swayze was fucking hot in _Dirty Dancing_ ,” Marvella commented, a dreamy look on her face.

“Speaking of dancing, do you have any tips for teaching someone to dance in heels?” Emmett asked.

Justin groaned.

“Are the lessons for this cutie pie?” Marvella inquired, reaching out to pinch the blond’s cheek.

“Baby’s a natural at dancing, so I don’t think it’ll take too long for him to get the hang of it, as long as he practices walking around in high heels. It’s another friend of ours that really needs the help; he’s not the smoothest mover to start with, ya know?”

“You should have him wear pumps then instead of trying to master high heels,” Marvella recommended. “Nothing looks worse on the dance floor than some dork tripping over their own feet. I’ve entered many a ballroom dance competition, and you wouldn’t believe the fools I’ve seen staggering around - some of them couldn’t even stand up in heels.”

“That sounds just like Teddy,” Emmett lamented. “He barely made it through the first rendition of _In the Gay-rage_ while wearing men’s loafers.”

“Oh!” Marvella stamped one stiletto-shod foot against the floor. “I was so miffed when I heard about your impromptu performance - I would’ve joined you lads if I’d still been at the garage sale.”

“Why don’t you join us this time?” Justin proposed, a bright smile on his face. “We’re going to have our reprise at the diner as part of the Christmas Day celebrations.”

“My bloke would love that.” The drag queen smiled back at Justin. “He’s never seen me perform.”

“It’s a deal!” Emmett squealed, clapping his hands and jumping up and down. “Liberty Avenue will never have seen the like.”

And never would again, Justin thought, if he had anything to say about it. How in the heck had he gotten roped into this anyway? “Um, Marvella, do you have any size eight trainers in stock?” he asked, wishing he didn’t have to reveal what a small foot he had. “A seven-and-a-half would be even better.”

“I don’t have any men’s sneakers in that size, but I have two pairs for women, one in a nine and the other in a nine-and-a-half.” Marvella responded, after consulting a chart at her counter.

“Uh, do they look girly? I don’t want to end up wearing hot pink trainers.”

“Baby,” Emmett intervened, “they’d still look better than the raggedy pair you have on. I don’t think that purple duct tape will keep the sole of your right shoe connected to the upper for much longer.”

Glancing down at Justin’s feet, Marvella concurred, “Those need to go directly into the dustbin. If the women’s trainers don’t fit, or if you don’t like the colours - one pair _is_ pink, although it’s more of a pale pink - there’s a pair of children’s high-tops that might do. They’re plain white, so they’d go with anything.”

Justin crossed his fingers that the child-sized shoes would fit. He didn’t want to wear girl’s shoes; he’d never hear the end of it if Em spilled the beans in front of the gang. Not that pink wouldn’t be a dead giveaway, but an inoffensive white should pass inspection.

Marvella must’ve guessed what he was thinking because she chuckled and led him toward the children’s section at the back of the store. “You do realise that you’re gonna end up wearing the girliest of shoes on Christmas Day, right, doll?”

“Yeah, but that’s just a one-off,” Justin explained. “It’s not like I have to live with them on a daily basis.”

“Here they are,” Marvella declared, grabbing the pair of aforementioned high-tops. “You might want to take these over to the adult section and sit on the bench there; your tushie isn’t child-sized, doll.”

“Uh, yeah,” Justin agreed, his cheeks flaming. He hoped there’d be no reason for Marvella to mention his other ‘oversized’ bit of anatomy. All in all, he mused, he’d far rather have small feet than be shortchanged in more important areas.

“Wow! These are a perfect fit,” the blond exclaimed, his feet sliding right into the sports shoes. After lacing them up, he stood, reached down to make sure he had a bit of wiggle room at the toe, and then walked around the store, browsing through the items Marvella had on sale. He stopped when he came to a pair of dark brown, cashmere-lined, leather gloves that looked brand new. He probably couldn’t afford them, but he couldn’t resist trying them on. A sigh of pleasure escaped his lips as the material caressed his skin, warmth encasing his fingers. Naturally, the darned things fit perfectly.

Justin winced when he looked at the price tag; like he’d expected, they were expensive, even if the price was much reduced from what he’d pay in a department store. Maybe he could still swing the purchase if the high-tops didn’t cost too much? Rather than take the shoes off to check the price, Justin trotted over to the counter, where Emmett and Marvella had their heads bent over a catalogue of what appeared to be women’s wigs.

Both queens looked up as he approached, Emmett slyly teasing, “Those shoes look great, Baby. No one would ever guess they’re children’s shoes.”

Ignoring the mischievous southerner’s remark, Justin queried, “How much are you asking for the high-tops?”

“Five dollars,” Marvella responded.

“What?” The teenager gaped at the drag queen. “They look like they’ve barely been worn.”

Marvella shrugged. “I’ve had them in stock since the store opened. Really, I don’t do that much business in children’s clothes and shoes; that’s why I keep the inventory to a minimum. You’re actually doing me a favour buying them for five dollars; the next stop for them would otherwise be the Goodwill.”

“In that case, I’ll take these too,” Justin decided, placing the toasty warm gloves on the counter.

While Marvella rang up the items, he extracted his wallet from the pocket of his cargos and laid three twenties on the counter.

The drag queen promptly slid one of the twenties back over to him. “That’s too much, doll.” After opening the till, she dropped six dollars and some change on top of the twenty.

Justin narrowed his eyes at Marvella. “Are you giving me some kind of preferential treatment?” he accused her.

Marvella boomed out a laugh. “Nope. I just run different specials every day of the week. It’s ‘Leather Saturday’ so all leather goods are half off. There’s a sign on the front door,” she added when Justin stared at her doubtfully.

“Crap!” the lad blurted out when the bells from the Our Lady of Fatima church started chiming the hour. “It’s already eight o’clock. I can’t believe I’m gonna be late for the second day in a row.” He snagged his change from the counter, crammed it into his pocket along with his wallet and dashed toward the door.

“Calm down, Baby,” Emmett tried to ease the teen’s worry, his long-legged stride allowing him to easily keep pace with Justin. “There’s not much happening at Babylon this early and, even allowing time for you to change, you won’t be more than twenty minutes late.”

“I’m having a hard time staying on top of everything,” the teen admitted as they hotfooted it toward the club. “Between school, three jobs, and tutoring the girls, it seems like I’m always running late for something. And I’m so fucking tired all the time.”

“Maybe you should drop the job that’s wearing you out the most. I’m guessing that it’s either the diner or dance gig that’s the problem.” Em commented diplomatically.

“It’s the dancing that really gets to me,” Justin acknowledged. “My legs feel like wet noodles after six hours, and I’m just generally wiped out. Plus, I only get a few hours of sleep before I have to get up and study, or be at the diner for an early shift.”

“I don’t like to see you running yourself ragged like this,” his tall friend said, the concern evident in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind, you know,” he joked, “if you stopped dancing on the bar. I’d still get to watch you shake your tail feathers on the dance floor; in fact, we could dance together - just like old times.”

Justin smiled at the southerner. “I miss dancing with you too, Em. I really hate to lose the income, though, so I’m going to give it a go” - he giggled at the unintended pun - “until the end of the year and then reassess after that. I don’t want to leave Arthur in the lurch over the holidays since that’s such a busy time at the club.”

“Don’t you worry about Mr Smythe. He already has plenty of lads lined up to be go-go boys. That kind of job is a revolving door; no one sticks with it for long. And no amount of money is worth continuing a job that’s detrimental to your health.” he insisted as they reached the steps leading into the club.

“You’re right.” Justin sighed. Maybe he should just quit now, so he could be sure to do justice to his freelance work for Brian? No, he determined, his chin jutting out stubbornly, he could keep going for at least a couple more weeks, especially since, after next Friday, he’d be free of school for the holiday break.

“Here,” Em said, breaking into his thoughts as he pulled a bright blue scarf out of the bag he was carrying, and looped it around the teen’s neck. “This is for you, Baby.”

“What? Why?” Justin sputtered.

“It matches your eyes,” came Emmett’s response. “Now shoo. You don’t want to be even later than you already are.”

Justin smiled as he jogged up the stairs to the club, turning to wave at his friend just before he disappeared through the door. Five minutes later as he jumped onto the bar, wearing his new briefs, he was still smiling.

 

Brian powered down his computer, rubbing at his tired eyes. The right advert for Mr Gizmo’s business still evaded him, but he had at least done most of his research - checking out competition, figuring out what worked and what didn’t.

He’d opted not to go to Babylon tonight and watch his boy dance; the blond brat was becoming too accustomed to Brian chasing after him, and a short absence should ratchet up the lad’s lust before he implemented the next phase in his plan of seduction.

Now, however, he was wound tight and in need of some relaxation. His whole body felt a little restless, and his dick was throbbing in unsatiated arousal. It was only now that he realised he hadn’t had sex in a remarkably long time.

Perhaps he had been hasty in turning off his computer, he thought, debating whether he should go and order himself a companion for the night through one of his bookmarked websites. Then again, a highly sought after stud like him shouldn’t really have to pay for sex; he could find a trick within five minutes of stepping outside his loft.

Heaving himself up off the bed, where he had been working on his laptop, Brian went to pick out an appropriate outfit. If he was going on the pull, he had to look his best, and the faded jeans he had donned after coming home weren’t going to cut it.

Reaching for a midnight blue Gucci shirt that he hadn’t worn yet, Brian came to a halt as he noticed something behind it in the far corner of the closet. He leaned down and picked up the crumpled material, unravelling it, only to recognise one of Justin’s paint-splattered T-shirts.

“Fuck,” he whispered, heaving a disappointed sigh. He couldn’t go out tricking, not now when he was so close to getting Justin where he wanted him - safe and sound back in his bed. Operation Twat Retrieval was nearing its successful conclusion, and Brian wasn’t going to jeopardise it. Especially as him not being able to keep it in his pants was what had blown up in his face the last time - the hustler escapade was still fresh in his mind - so there was no need to repeat his mistakes.

Still in desperate need of getting off and with no way to relieve himself, Brian flopped down on the bed in frustration.

Maybe he could just jerk off again to memories of Justin, he thought with a full-body shiver. Plus, his glass dildo was in his bedside drawer, just waiting to be used.

His gaze falling on the closed laptop he had left on the covers beside him, he got another idea. Or, he grinned, he could watch some porn and jerk off to that. He was always up for fresh material, and he had saved up some videos he hadn’t had the time to watch yet.

Powering up the computer again, he quickly navigated his folders, before clicking on the one named, “Accounting - June 1999.” He then proceeded to scroll through the videos, reading the names as he went.

He paused at one called “A blond twink riding a muscle stud” but in the end decided it hit a bit too close to home and scrolled past.

Dismissing “Two muscled studs in a steam room” and “A hung black bottom drilled by a white stud,” he finally settled on “A locker room gangbang.”

Grabbing a bottle of lube, his glass dildo, and some tissues to clean up with, he moved the party over to the sofa. He undressed completely, before spreading himself comfortably across his Italian Moda couch.

Hitting the play button on the video, he assessed the actors. There were five of them - one twink with light brown hair and four hunky tops. He promptly skipped the boring part - avoiding the bad acting and the scene setup.

Then, pouring a small amount of lube on his half-hard cock, he began watching.

The twink was sitting astride a bench, his face right at waist height as the hunks moved in on him. Brian watched the lithe man wrap his mouth around the first cock that got shoved into his face, and slid a loose fist along his own shaft.

"That's it,” the guy on the screen urged the boy on. “Mmm, yeah, suck that big cock."

Brian enjoyed the slow slip and slide of his lubricated hand as he watched the blowjob scene unfold, soft moans and snuffling sounds filling his living room.

Soon, another cock was slapping the side of the twink’s head, prompting him to move over and start sucking the new treat, a tanned hand guiding his mouth up and down the shaft.

Brian sped up his movement, eyeing the spit-slick lips of the enthusiastic cocksucker. He ran a thumb right across the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come around, his breath hitching slightly. He did it again, gripping his erection tighter, and didn’t bother to stop the moan that escaped him at the increased sensations. It didn’t take long before his loud moans and groans joined the cacophony of sounds coming from his laptop.

"I wanna get a taste of that ass," said a Latino guy, who had the biggest dick of all the actors. "On your stomach," he commanded.

The twink did as he was told and lay face down on the bench, revealing his pale, tight ass to the camera. “Oh, yeah,” one of the hunks moaned, as the Latino grabbed hold of the twink’s cheeks and spread them apart.

Brian watched as the man licked up and down the tempting hole in front of him for a couple of minutes, before finally sticking his tongue inside. Feeling a pleasant tingle run through his abdomen, Brian slowed down the movements of his hand. He glanced at the glass dildo he had set on the couch cushion next to his hip and decided to move things along. Slicking up up a couple of his fingers, he spread himself open and began to lightly tease his hole.

Meanwhile, the scene on the laptop screen also progressed. The Latino guy had spread a small amount of lube along his wide cock and was now slowly pushing into the slender bottom. The twink whined loudly, fingers clenching and unclenching as the big shaft impaled him.

Pressing the tip of his forefinger inside his hole, Brian watched as another cock filled the twink’s mouth, causing the lad’s cheeks to bulge with the enormous mouthful as he eagerly started sucking. The guy behind him started to slowly move in and out of his ass, hips thrusting in regular movements.

Brian pushed his finger deeper into himself, pelvis rising off the cushion to get a better angle and ease the way. He brushed against his prostate at the same exact moment a splash of come painted the twink’s face on screen.

Watching as the Latino hunk pulled his cock back out of the bottom and stepped away to make room for another top, Brian pressed in a second finger. The twink was forcibly rolled onto his back, ending up staring innocently at the four guys.

Brian scissored his fingers, stretching himself as best as he could, sensing the video would soon reach the best part and wanting to be ready for it. On screen, two cocks were shoved into the lad’s face, prompting him to open wide and take the heads of both of them into his wet heat.

“Ah!” Brian cried out as his fingers pressed against the bundle of nerves inside of him a little too harshly, jolting his whole body. His yelp was joined by a loud whine from the twink, whose legs had been spread wide by another guy as he plunged inside of his willing body.

"Fuck, he loves this,” the guy commented. “He’s so tight.”

Saliva began to dribble down the bottom’s chin, and Brian braved a third finger. He was going to be ready soon, he thought as his hole stretched to accommodate the new addition.

Brian was now fucking his fingers in and out of himself, ragged breaths escaping him involuntarily as he watched the screen intently. The bottom was writhing under the ministrations of the four guys – one cock inside of his ass, two in his mouth, and the remaining one being jerked off right above his perky nipples.

Losing his patience, Brian deemed himself ready enough for the next step and grabbed for his dildo. He lubed it up thoroughly before lightly pressing it against his opening.

He teased himself with the smooth shaft, eyes focused on the video. The current top let out a guttural growl as his balls drew closer to his body, before a full body shudder ran through him as he came.

"Fuck, yeah!” he yelled, emptying inside of the twink. He pulled out to let the camera see his shiny cum dripping out of the loosened asshole.

"Lift him up," said the guy who had been jerking his dick above the boy’s torso. The bottom was immediately pulled up to his feet, weak knees barely supporting his weight.

Brian pressed just the tip of his dildo inside, enjoying the fullness, before retreating again. Sweat was beading on his chest, tanned skin now glistening in the weak evening light. He must make a really nice picture, he thought to himself, with how wantonly he was spread across the couch – cock hard and hole stuffed.

Arousal tingled insistently in his belly. He watched as the top lay down on the vacated bench, shaft standing erect. “Now come and ride me," he demanded of the twink.

The boy stood astride the hunk and slowly lowered his ass onto the dick, whining loudly. Brian filled his own ass with the dildo at the same pace, using the visual to stoke his simmering arousal. The big glass head slid against his prostate firmly, which caused his legs to jerk.

“Fuck!” he yelped. He was a little more sensitive than usual, he noticed absentmindedly, pressing against the bundle of nerves again and again, enjoying the strong reaction of his body.

The hunk on the screen began to bounce the twink on his cock, increasing his speed in small increments until the boy squealed, before he wrapped his arms around the lithe man’s back and brought him to his chest firmly.

“All right, let’s get another dick in that ass,” the Latino guy suggested, stepping forward.

And Brian’s eyes widened along with the twink’s, as the generously endowed man pushed his large member against his already full hole.

“Come on, relax,” the guy instructed, and Brian unconsciously held his breath as he watched the twink’s ass stretch in order to allow the intrusion.

“Fuuuck!” Brian moaned, voice intermingled with the bottom’s high-pitched whine.

The second the guy buried himself inside the tight ass, he started thrusting.

Brian sped up his own thrusts with the dildo, nudging his prostate on every pass. He could already feel the heat coiling in his groin, his orgasm imminent.

“Oh my god, yes! Yes!" the bottom pleaded, eyes closed and mouth open.

Brian fucked himself even harder. The muscles in his legs began to spasm, his hole clenching rhythmically, and his dick was so engorged, it looked like it would burst.

“Oh fuck, yes!" the guy lying underneath the twink yelled, groaning through his orgasm as he shot his load. The Latino, however, kept going – his dick squelching in and out.

Brian was teetering on the brink, body wound tight, one hand working fast between his legs as the glass dildo drilled his prostate, the other sliding along his length once again.

“Yeah,” he husked. “Come on.”

The sounds in his living room were slowly reaching a crescendo, the tension rising as the actors on his screen also neared their release. Then, the top’s balls tightened, the twink arched his back and - after a second of complete silence - the guys on the screen groaned out their climax.

Brian shuddered and squirmed violently as his own orgasm overwhelmed his body, a loud whine escaping his throat. His vision whited out as warm come splattered all across his abdomen.

When he came to a while later, he was all sticky with both sweat and his rapidly cooling semen; the glass dildo was still hanging out of his abused hole; and the laptop screen was dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase Emmett used in his conversation with Brian, “Liar, liar, Prada on fire!” comes from Kerri’s review of chapter 35.
> 
> Don't forget our FanDoc. There are contests, so be sure to check it out: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uhHXQuYoqDIokf8F70MApLJ2gJKdbhyVBXDvawM2Pqc/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> The FanDoc includes a link to 'KaBrynn's Guide to BritSpeak and Americanisms'. You can also access it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d3EgiVo5MZdNRQLW2ImtwEqyqeXyy0Bn6KVlsh129_s/edit


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